


A Wedding After the War

by ladydirewolf1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Healing, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-01-31 20:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18598594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: The war against the long night is over, and Westeros needs to reunite and rebuild. In order to bring the North and South together, Daenerys commands Sansa to marry one of the Lannister men, but which one will she choose? Sansa doesn't want to be a wife again, but with her new queen's orders, Sansa is forced to confront her past traumas and begins the process of healing.





	1. A Choice Between Lions

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly based on a version of how GoT season 8 could end. Please remember that these are just my opinions, all ships are valid, and if you're here to hate on my pairings or plot, please excuse yourself out. Anyway, if you do enjoy this story please let me know and tell me who you think Sansa should end up with! Thanks for reading xx

            During the war against the long night, Sansa had tried not to think of what was to come after—it was a dangerous way of thinking, after all. You don’t want to dream of spring when everyone you know is likely to die at the hands of the undead in the North or the mad lioness in the South. Yes, she thought of the North, protecting it against Daenerys’s claim, but not of herself. Not what may be in store for the Lady of Winterfell.

            But the war was over. Jon and his Dragon Queen had been hastily married in the Godswood just days after the Night King and Cersei’s defeat, but they all knew the union would do little to help the kingdoms reunite and rebuild. After Daenerys had proven herself in the war, the North had begun to welcome her as their queen, though only if she stood by Jon’s side. The South, well…the South was more complicated. They trusted neither Daenerys or Jon, two foreigners for all they knew. The bannermen of the southern houses would not bend the knee until one of their own showed that an alliance with the North was to their advantage. Until North and South came together in marriage.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sansa stood across from Daenerys and Jon, her eyes downcast and staring into the flames of the hearth. Winterfell’s great hall was empty save for them—it was always empty nowadays. Although more of their force had survived the war than anyone could have hoped for, the few absences left the castle eerily sparse. Theon, Ser Jorah, Missandei…all people she had never imagined missing. And although Sansa would never admit it, she sometimes still longed for their company.

            “Sansa, do you understand what we’re saying?” Jon asked, causing Sansa’s eyes to snap back up from the flames.

            “I do,” she answered, gaze flicking from Jon to Daenerys. The Dragon Queen’s face was stony, unmoving, but Sansa could still tell that this was her doing. Her command. Her words dripping from Jon’s tongue. Jon would have never asked her to do this without his queen demanding it. “You want me to marry a Lannister.” Sansa swallowed and lifted her chin. “Again.”

            Daenerys and Jon shared a look—Jon must have warned her that Sansa would not like the idea, but at the end of the day, what could she do about it? The realm needed peace. It needed to stop fighting and start growing, building, living. As the Lady of Winterfell with all the power that came with that little title, how could Sansa refuse?

            “It will be your choice which man, my lady,” Daenerys said calmly. “Although you know which brother I would prefer. Tyrion has already proven himself a kind husband once before, has he not?”

            _Kind enough to marry a child_ , Sansa thought bitterly. At least back then, Tyrion had been willing to leave the marriage unconsummated. Now though, with either Lannister, Sansa imagined that she would not be so lucky as to avoid consummation. “If it pleases your Grace, I would like some time to make my decision,” Sansa replied.

            Daenerys bowed her head. “Of course, Lady Stark. But choose quickly. We leave for King’s Landing in three days.”

            Sansa turned on her heel and began walking towards the door, but just as she reached it, Daenerys’s clear voice caused her to halt. Sansa turned back toward the table.

            “Lady Stark,” Daenerys began, glancing again at Jon. “It would be wise to keep our intentions to yourself until you have reached a decision. With Winterfell finally at peace, it would be unwise to cause any…unrest. There are still others in this castle that believe they have a chance at your hand.”

 

* * *

 

 

            As Sansa lay back on her bed, tears began to well in her eyes, and she dragged a hand against her wet nose. _I want mother, father, Robb_. They would have understood, wouldn’t they? That Sansa didn’t want to marry again. Not after being wed to Tyrion as a mere, frightened little girl, not after the advances of Lord Baelish, and especially not after the months of abuse dealt by Ramsay in their wedding bed.

            Of course she understood the political gain their side could have because of Sansa—she was young, beautiful, and the key to the North, as they often said. Even while the war still raged, she heard whispers of which men hoped to secure her as a wife. Once while passing through a camp of Wilding tents, she heard the shaggy-haired women wondering if the lady of the castle kissed by fire would take Tormund Giantsbane as a husband. It would secure the Free Folk, after all. At other times she saw the Hound watching her, and although his burned gazed frightened her still, Sansa knew he would not be a candidate for her hand. That left Tyrion and Jaime. And Sansa had no idea how they felt about her.

            Sansa dried her tears on her fur blankets, then pushed herself off the bed. She opened her wardrobe and pulled out a pale blue gown with a scooped neckline and cinched waist. It had been her mother’s when she was younger. Sansa had managed to secure it from her parent’s bedchamber before Ramsay arrived, so it was not torn and stained like many of her other gowns that still fit. She dragged a thumb across the smooth silk, then sighed. She was not ready to look like the beautiful little girl that left Winterfell so many years ago.

            Sansa tucked the gown away and moved to the looking glass, admiring her leather corset and the silver chain hanging loose around her neck. She looked strong. Cold. She had no reason to impress these Lannister men, and they had no right to see her in any other way. Daenerys and Jon could make her marry and become a lord’s wife once again, but they could not make her want it. Could not make her do anything but play the part.


	2. A Conversation Between Exes

            She had to ask more than a handful of guards and maids before discovering the shorter Lannister’s location. While Jaime was more often than not seen sparing in the courtyard with Ser Brienne or anyone of the other remaining fighters, Sansa only caught glimpses of Tyrion around the castle. Perhaps he was avoiding her. Perhaps he was avoiding everyone. After all, it was Tyrion who had killed Cersei in the end. Tyrion who gave the command that let the loose the spark that bathed the Red Keep in terrible green flames. Although it was for the greater good, it was a monstrous act none the less, though no one dared say that aloud.

            It was Maester Luwin’s old quarters that Sansa pushed into now, her eyes roaming the dim, book-filled room before they landed on Tyrion. He was sat at the corner desk, and at the sound of her footsteps, he looked up from the leather-bound book laid open on the desk and gently put a raven-feather quill down beside it.

            “Lady Stark,” Tyrion said, his voice filled with a familiar gruffness that had grown heavier since the end of the war. Or so it seemed to Sansa—she had hardly seen the man since returning to Winterfell.

            “Lord Tyrion,” Sansa replied. She opened her mouth to say more, but suddenly found that she didn’t know which words she was supposed to say.

            The scraping of chair legs stopped her from saying anything too stupid, and she watched as Tyrion rose to his feet, gesturing towards the plusher chairs positioned in front of the open window. It was a sunny winter day, and the although the air outside was cold, the sunlight cast a small pool of warmth in the otherwise chilly quarters. When Sansa raised a brow at his gesture, a small smile grew on his scruffy, scarred mouth. “You look like you have something on your mind.”

            Sansa tipped her head in agreement, then they took their seats by the window. Sansa found herself smoothing out the folds of her skirt, playing with the chain of her silver necklace. All the while she felt Tyrion’s large eyes on her, not pressing but curious. Although they had talked strategy quite a few times during the war, they had not discussed further the topic of their past marriage. She cast her gaze to the window, at the ice-licked trees outside the castle walls and said in what she hoped was a conversational tone, “What are you writing?”

            Tyrion let out a surprised breath. “Ah, that…that will be the story of the war. The winners, the losers…though I am afraid I’m lacking on the Night King’s perspective, but I hope readers can look around that little fact.”

            Sansa chuckled, and she noted Tyrion’s pleased smile at her reaction. “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

            “Neither did I.” Tyrion drummed his fingers on the window ledge, quiet for a moment. “I suppose we don’t know much about each other, Lady Stark.”

            Her smile faded, and Sansa glanced down at her skirt once again. She played with the thick wool, folding it between her fingers, wondering how she wanted this conversation to go. What do you ask the man you may marry once again? Sansa stilled her fingers, and she looked back into Tyrion’s eyes. _I will be bold_ , she thought, raising her chin slightly. _I shall ask whatever I wish_. “When your family told you I was to be your bride, what did you think?”

            “What did I think?”

            “About me. About marrying a girl of ten-and-two at the demands of Tywin Lannister. About what your life would be like as a married man.”

            Tyrion leaned back against his chair. He drew his hand back into his lap and looked out the window. “Truthfully, my lady, I was scared.”

            “Of me?” she response curtly.

            “I was scared,” Tyrion repeated pointedly, “but I was not unpleased. I was afraid of hurting you. Of what I might eventually do.”

            “So you would have eventually consummated the marriage, even against my wishes?”

            Tyrion sighed, and when he shook his head, his dark golden curls swayed slightly against his temple. “I…I would have hoped, foolishly, that eventually you would have desired me. Seen me as more than the monster I appear to be. Whether that was in a month or a year or longer, I did…I did hope that it may eventually happen. For both our sakes, my lady. If we had managed to go for much longer without a sign of a Lannister babe, my father would have taken over the situation.”

            _Would I?_ Sansa wondered, her gaze drifting over Tyrion as he looked away from her. _Would I eventually have wanted you?_ “Do you think you would have desired me as well?”

            At that, Tyrion looked back at her, surprised. “Even at that age, you were beautiful—”

            “Not like that,” Sansa said, stopping him from continuing. “I mean, would you have learned to love me?”

            He considered this for a moment, his lips parting once, then twice, before replying. “Love is a fickle thing, my lady. Some never find it. Some find it in the wrong people. Others destroy the best love they’ll ever know.”

            “And which kind of person were you?” she asked quietly. “No man speaks of love like that without knowing.”

            “I’m not sure,” Tyrion answered, his voice equally as soft and brimming with some emotions Sansa could not see on his face, though she heard them clearly. “Give it a few more years, and I suppose I might have an answer for you.”

            Sansa nodded, then she abruptly rose to her feet. She bowed her head. “I’ll let you get back to your writing,” she said.

            “Did I help?” When Sansa frowned at his question, he added with a slight air of amusement. “With whatever was on your mind?”

            She smiled politely, hoping it gave an air of pretty satisfaction. She did not want Tyrion to guess the truth—that their conversation had made her even more confused—even if he had no idea of the marriage decision that lay behind her questioning. “Thank you for talking with me, Lord Tyrion,” she said finally.

            “I should be the one thanking you. This was a…pleasant surprise. I get very few visitors up here,” he said, gesturing to the cluttered room.

            “Perhaps it is because no one knows where you are,” she mused, matching his playful tone.

            He smirked at her jest. “A fact I would like to keep secret…and it’s just Tyrion,” he added. “In private, I believe we are beyond those silly courtesies.”

            Sansa nodded, and though she knew he expected her to return the same offer of informality, Sansa kept her mouth shut. She had fought hard to earn her name as the Lady of Winterfell, and she did not wish to lose that distinction, not to the man she may marry, and definitely not to a Lannister. Daenerys and Jon may have brushed aside what the lions did to the Starks, but Sansa had not forgotten. She gave Tyrion a polite goodbye before sweeping from the room. As she strode down the dark corridor, the sound of a quill scratching against parchment began again, and Sansa wondered who she would be in that story of his.

 

* * *

 

 

            After spending the rest of her day going over food supply books with Winterfell’s new cooks, Sansa supped with Gilly in the courtyard. The girl had been surprised at her presence at first, as Sansa usually dined with Jon and Daenerys in the great hall, but welcoming nonetheless. Gilly needn’t know how angry Sansa still was with their king and queen, nor how their courtyard seats gave her a perfect view of the training grounds—and the knights who trained on it.

            Or so Sansa thought, when Gilly suddenly put down her soup spoon and said, quite pointedly, “Marvelous, isn’t he?”

            Sansa glanced up at Gilly in surprise, then to where Gilly was looking. On the other end of the courtyard, basked in the light of the setting sun, Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime clashed swords, both silent and sweating despite their thin leather doublets. “We were lucky to have such talented knights on our side,” Sansa said carefully. She watched as Jaime raked a hand through his hair, pushing the cropped locks at his temples backward, slickened with sweat. He stepped to Brienne’s right as her sword lunged for his left thigh, then danced forward when she made her next move. Even with one hand, Jaime was a painting of a fairy tale knight. _Too bad paintings lie._

            “I like to dine out here when the weather’s not too bad,” Gilly said, her eyes still soft and practically drooping with admiration. “Sam doesn’t mind too much. He knows I prefer him and his books to a man like that,” she said, nodding to Jaime. “Not like you though, my lady.”

            Sansa looked back at Gilly, surprised. “What?”

            Gilly reluctantly tore her gaze away from the knights. “I mean, a high-born lady like you must wish to someday marry a high-born lord like that. Handsome, strong…”

            “Have you not heard the stories?” Sansa replied, a bit harsher than she had attended. She couldn’t help but feel taken aback at Gilly’s words, at her lack of understanding of what pretty men like Jaime Lannister were like in the real world.

            But Gilly nodded, ignoring Sansa’s sudden change in tone. “I ‘ave, my lady, but I also heard and saw how he fought during the war against the Night King. He came to Winterfell to help you, to help us fight for good. If that’s not a decent man, than I don’t know who is.”

            Sansa turned her gaze back to the knights, pondering Gilly’s surprisingly wise words. She wondered if this golden knight really had changed—Brienne seemed to think so, at least. But just because he was handsome, and had turned to their side right before the first battle, she couldn’t forget who he had once been…who he still was. A lover of his sister. A man more than twice her age. He had fought her father, her brother…he could be that man once again, for all she knew.

            Gilly excused herself to go take her babe off of Sam, and Sansa found herself still watching, though her eyes had gone blurry as she lost herself in thought. It was not until the two figures seemed to turn to statues that Sansa blinked, then soon found herself blushing stupidly. Jaime and Brienne had their swords limp at their sides, their eyes undoubtedly watching her stare. Before the heat could escape her cheeks, Brienne began striding towards her, with Jaime on her heels. Sansa jumped to her feet.

            “Lady Stark? Is something the matter?” Brienne asked, obviously concerned at Sansa’s unusual behavior. Sansa was not one to be out in the main part of the courtyard by herself so late into the evening.

            Sansa gave her a quick smile to reassure the knight. “Ser Brienne…Ser Jaime. I…” Her gaze flitted from Brienne to Jaime, then back again. “Nothing is of matter. I was simply interested in your training.”

            Brienne looked over her shoulder at Jaime, frowning, and he shrugged. “I imagine it could be entertaining to watch your sworn knight beat a cripple over and over again,” he said, smirking at Brienne. She rolled her eyes, though Sansa noted a glint of laughter threatening to break free from her hard face.

            “A bit,” Sansa replied, though she looked at Brienne instead of Jaime as she said it. “Perhaps you could train me some time. I believe my sister left behind some more suitable weapons than a great sword before going leaving with Gendry.”

            “I…well I suppose that could be arranged, my lady, but—”

            “I meant with Ser Jaime,” Sansa said hurriedly, cutting Brienne off. Both knight’s brows lifted in surprise, and she quickly added, “I mean you no offence, Ser Brienne. It is only that I have not spent long in Ser Jaime’s company during the war. I—I would like to learn more of this knight you speak so highly of.”

            “Do you speak highly of me, Ser?” Jaime quipped, smirking again at Brienne. When she rolled her eyes once again, he stepped forward to Brienne’s side. “If that is what you wish, Lady Stark, it can be arranged,” he said, his voice perfectly courteous. Sansa guessed that he had many other things he’d rather do than show a high-born girl how to wield a knife, but it was a good sign that he could at least pretend to be polite.

            Sansa nodded. “Tomorrow morning then?”

            “If you wish.”

            “Thank you, Ser Jaime.” Sansa bowed her head to Brienne. “Ser Brienne. Goodnight.”

            Sansa spun back around and made her way back to the castle doors, feeling the knights’ curious eyes on her the whole way. She hadn’t planned such a bold move with this less familiar Lannister man, but she was proud of herself for making it. She had only two days to make a decision, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know not too much actually happened, but I hoped you enjoyed these two conversations that are leading us closer to Sansa's decision! Are you still expecting one or the other to be her choice? Let me know and thanks for reading :)


	3. The Ghost of Winterfell

            As soon as Sansa entered Winterfell’s armory, she felt a sudden rush of uncertainty. Last night she had asked Jaime to train her on a whim, influenced by Gilly’s admiring words of the Lannister knight and prompted too by her need to make a quick decision on her marriage. She didn’t know a thing about blades or fighting, not like Arya, and she felt alarmingly out of place in the room lined with swords, breastplates, and all other sorts of weaponry. Jaime was yet to arrive, so Sansa found herself wandering around the dark room, glancing at steel, iron, and dragonglass blades. She made her way towards one of the back tables, then paused when her eyes fell upon a dagger with a smooth dragonbone hilt.

            _The blade Arya slit Lord Baelish’s throat with_. _The one he tried to kill Bran with. The one that started the war._ There were no signs of the blade’s terrible past now, just clean, gleaming Valyrian steel and polished bone. Just as Sansa reached out to touch it, fingers suddenly wrapped around her arm, and a man said in a low voice, “Careful, my lady.”

            Sansa let out a little gasp of surprise and turned, her skirts whipping at her ankles. She found herself looking up at Jaime, and as soon as recognition settled in her chest, Sansa’s breathing eased, and she bowed her head. His fingers fell away.

            “Sorry Ser Jaime—I shouldn’t have been so startled.”

            He shrugged, though a small smile played on his lips. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you in a room full of blades.”

            She let out a polite laugh. “I’m afraid they wouldn’t be of much use to me,” Sansa replied. She glanced back at the dagger, then to some of the other nearby swords.

            “Is this what you’d like to learn how to use?” he asked, reaching around her to pick up the dagger. Jaime flipped it in his hand, and Sansa watched as it turned over in the air before the hilt settled back between his fingers. “It’s a good weight for you, though a tad bigger than what a lady would usually carry.”

            “Do you know many ladies who carry daggers, Ser Jaime?”

            “No,” he answered as he inspected the hilt, running a finger down the bone. “Most of the ladies I know carry swords.” He looked back down at her. “Your sister included. I saw her fight during the battle for Winterfell. She was…surprisingly impressive for just a girl.”

            Sansa smiled—a genuine smile this time—at the memory of her sister. Gods, how she missed her, though she knew Arya was happy being off in the world with that blacksmith of hers. “Arya’s always been different, always wanted to fight. When I found out she’d moved on to swords and spears, I was hardly surprised. I hope you don’t expect my skills to match my sister’s.”

            He laughed, then turned the blade around in his hand to point the hilt towards her. “I hope not, Lady Stark, or I would think your invitation just a ruse to get my attention.”

            Sansa took hold of the hilt, trying to keep her expression indifferent to his comment. “Shall we move outside, Ser?” she asked lightly.

            He nodded. “Let’s begin.”

 

            Jaime had started with the basics of holding the dagger, and once he was confident that Sansa’s fingers were in the right place, he took a step back from her and pointed to his doublet. “Lesson one of stabbing, my lady, is you need to know the soft spots. If you’re too high,” he said, fingers sliding up an inch or so, “you run into the rib.” He tapped his fingers against himself, and sure enough, his fingers did not press too far into the supple leather. “If you stab too low,” he said, moving his fingers down, “the man will cry like a babe, but you won’t hit anything important enough to cause lasting damage. You must slide the blade right _between_ the two lower ribs. Do you understand?”

            “I believe so, but…”

            “Go on.”

            “But is it likely I’d attack a man from the front?” she asked, frowning. “They’d see me coming with the blade right away and attack me first.”

            “You’re right. That’s why you’d keep the placement I showed you in mind, but do the actual stabbing from behind.”

            “From behind?” She stared at him, doubtful. “And how am I supposed to get close enough behind a man to stab him?”

            He began walking towards her, and although Sansa felt a sudden urge to back away, she forced herself to remain still. Jaime stepped behind her, still a good foot away, before stopping. Sansa felt her breathing hitch despite herself, but what girl wouldn’t when a strange man was standing directly behind her with a dagger?

            “May I show you, Lady Stark?” he asked, his voice polite and low.

            She nodded, and at her motion, she felt him step even closer, just a couple inches away from her back. Jaime was half-a-head taller than her, so his mouth was almost level with her ear. She felt a soft rush of air tickle the delicate skin as he spoke, more quietly than before but still polite and without any traces of impropriety. For that, Sansa was grateful.  

            “Can I touch you to show you? It will be easier that way.”

            “I…I suppose so.”

            His right hand, the gold hand, snaked around her waist and settled on the opposite side, his arm now wrapped around her middle. Sansa flinched at the weight of the metal and his arm, but then forced her body to remain still. “It’s quite simple to attack a man from behind,” he breathed into her hair, arm tightening. Again, Sansa found her body flinching at the sudden change, and a feeling began to rush up her toes, towards her chest. It wasn’t the shy, pleasant heat she used to feel around Loras Tyrll, but a cold, familiar one. Fear. Fear and…something else. Memories dragged forward to the front of her mind of arms and hands and things far, far worse. _Should I tell him? Tell him to stop? But you told him he could touch you._ The thoughts flew through her mind, but before Sansa could make up her mind, Jaime was already talking. “Start by holding him—it will get you close enough while also keeping him calm. Once he’s settled down, that’s when you pull out your blade.”

            Sansa glanced down. At the sight of his arm around her waist, she felt the coldness rush upwards, constricting around her throat, her head. Her gaze slid over to the right, and she saw the blade flash silver in the morning sunlight. _Breathe. Just breathe._ “Since it’s a dagger,” he continued on, “you can keep the majority of the weapon hidden in your hand. If you have a good grip, it should be quite easy to reach around”—his hand shifted, crossing over her belly until it was just under the left side of her ribs—“find your mark with your fingers”—his forefinger brushed against the soft part of her ribcage, causing Sansa to bite back a gasp—"and slide the tip of the blade right…there.” He pressed his nail against the spot, hard enough that it wasn’t just _nothing_ anymore, and this time Sansa gasped, found her body fighting to break free from him as the coldness flooded all over. She heard Jaime’s concerned voice saying her name, but it was like her vision had blurred and her ear had become stuffed with wool. All she could focus on was getting out, getting away. In a burst of frenzied movement, Sansa shoved his arms away from her and whirled around to face him.

            “Sansa! Are you all right?”

            What was she supposed to say? Sansa’s chest heaved as she stared up at him. His eyes were wide and concerned, but there was something else there too. Anger, maybe. Or disappointment. Had she disappointed him with her rudeness?  

            Once her breathing had settled slightly, Sansa cleared her throat and forced herself to smile. “Thank you, Ser Jaime,” Sansa said, her words too rushed to sound calm. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hoping the pain would snap her out of her state. “That was a useful demonstration, but I’m afraid that’s all I have time for today.”

            Jaime looked speechless, but after a moment, he simply nodded. “Are you all right, my lady? Truly? I did not intend to frighten you—”

            “You didn’t,” Sansa said hurriedly. “I…I ate too little at breakfast and am feeling a bit unwell, exactly.” She bowed her head and tried to focus on the tips of her boots, muddy and sticking out from beneath the hem of her skirt. They swam before her, a blur of black and brown. Sansa looked back up at him, and her stomach flipped. Perhaps she truly was unwell. “Please excuse me, Ser Jaime, while I retire to my chambers.”

            She didn’t bother to wait for a response before hurrying back inside the castle. She ignored Tyrion on the staircase as he called out a pleasantry, ignored the serving boy with a laden tray who had to jump out of her path, and barely said a word to the maid tidying her room before slamming the door behind her. Alone, at last, Sansa fell into her bed. She wrapped the furs around herself, cocooning herself inside their warmth despite the heat of the fire blazing in the hearth, and began to sob. The furs grew wet and snotty, but it was so nice and safe and dark beneath their weight. She couldn’t see anything, curled up alone like this on her bed, so she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears. There was no one to touch her, taunt her, hit her, force himself inside her every way that pleased him.

            But no matter how hard she tried to forget, Ramsay’s face still swam towards her through the muddled blackness of her eyelids.

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime was confused to see Tyrion moving towards him from across the courtyard, then even more confused at the words Tyrion called out before reaching him. “Trade your sword for a knife, brother?”

            He blinked in question before realizing he still held the Valyrian dagger in his hand. Jaime tucked it inside the thick leather of his belt. “No. I was training Lady Stark how to use it.”

            Tyrion came to a stop. “Ah, so that’s why the girl was running so fast to her chambers. You would have thought someone was chasing her.”

            “She was?”

            His brother nodded. “Did your lack of skills really scare her off?”

            Jaime shook his head. He fingered the dagger’s hilt idly as he stared up at the castle where he knew Sansa’s bedchamber was. The shutters were open, but at this distance he couldn’t see much of anything inside the window. “It wasn’t my _lack of skills_ that scared her, but something did.” Jaime looked down at Tyrion and frowned. “Do you think it was me? Am I truly that frightening?”

            Tyrion shrugged. “What of it? I didn’t think you valued Lady Stark’s opinion of you so highly.”

            “And you do?”

            “The girl is cleverer than she looks, if you couldn’t already tell from her role in the war. We had an…interesting conversation the other day.”

            “What about?”

            “Love, of all things.”

            Jaime’s brows raised at that— _love?_ After what the Lannisters did to her, Jaime imagined that Sansa Stark had become disillusioned against the notion of love entirely. “Do you know why she wanted to speak with you?”

            Again, Tyrion shrugged. “All I am sure of is that Sansa Stark has something going on in that pretty red head of hers, and after her little…failed attempt at soldiering with you, whatever it is, it has something to do with the two of us.” Tyrion reached out and clapped him on his wrist. “Now come, brother. I hear an order of wine is arriving at the gate soon, and I can’t make off with a cask all on my own.”

            Jaime let his brother lead the way across the courtyard, still pondering over his brother’s words. If the Lady of Winterfell was interested in the Lannisters after practically ignoring them during the war, then something was indeed going on inside that pretty red head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this little scene! I'm still deciding which Lannister she will end up with, but I'm afraid to disappoint people on both sides! If anyone is really hoping for a Jaime/Sansa fic that's already finished, please check out "The Viper and the Lion"! I'm back to updating the sequel too now, so stay tuned for that. As always, thanks for reading :)


	4. We Are Different People Now

            Sansa’s eyes were still red when she heard the knock at her door. Quickly, Sansa sat up and untangled herself from her furs. “Come in,” she called out, tucking her tangled hair behind her ears. When the door opened, she set her jaw in a hard line. “Who sent you?”

            Jon hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside. He closed the door behind him. “No one, Sansa…I noticed you missed the midday meal. Would you like me to send something up?”

            She huffed and drew her knees to her chest. At least with Jon she did not have to play at being a proper lady. “I’m not hungry.”

            “You need to at least come down for supper.”

            “So I can be cornered by your queen and asked my decision?” Sansa’s fingers curled into the furs, and she squeezed the soft handful, watching her knuckles turn white. Her eyes still stung with tears, but she wasn’t sad—she was _angry_. Angry at the queen, yes, but mostly at Jon. He stood by his queen’s side as Daenerys handed out the sentence. “What do you think she’d do, Jon, if I refused to marry one of the Lannisters? Burn me alive?”

            Jon’s lips parted, then he sighed. He moved over to the bed and sat down gingerly on the edge, as if afraid to intrude on her space. “You know I wouldn’t let that happen.”

            Sansa let out a huff of angry laughter. So he did not deny the queen might want to take such an action. “But you’ll stand by her side as she forces me to marry?”

            “Perhaps this time it will be different—”

            “Different!” Sansa slid from the bed to stand in front of him—with Jon still on the mattress, she towered above him, and his dark eyes seemed to dance with guilt in the pale sunlight streaming in through the window. “Do you need a reminder of my pervious marriages, cousin?” He flinched at the word cousin, and his eyes darted away. “I was a child when they wed me to Tyrion. A _child_ , Jon, and by the Gods I swear that would not have kept Tyrion long before he caved to Tywin’s demands and bed me.”

            “You don’t know that…”

            “And do you remember my second marriage?”

            Jon’s face hardened. “Of course, Sansa. Ramsay Bolton was a monster that we destroyed. Together.” He reached for her hand, but Sansa drew it back, ignoring the way his face fell.

            “Together?” Gods, she wanted to laugh at the madness of it all, at the nightmare her life had become since the day they left Winterfell. “You know nothing of what that bastard did to me,” Sansa said quietly. “How he kept me in Ned and Catelyn’s chambers for months without fresh air or sunlight, always ready, always waiting to pleasure him. How he made people watch…he made Theon watch on our wedding night, did you know that? I thought that was it, that I could at least suffer him in peace. But Ramsay liked to put on a show. Liked to have his servants and whores and guards watch the poor Lady Bolton be raped over and over again until she finally stopped crying.” Sansa drew a shaky breath and stared into Jon’s eyes. They were wet now. “You may have defeated Ramsay, but he lives on in my head, and no matter how hard I try I cannot forget—forget as you can,” Sansa whispered, her voice beginning to waver as her eyes began to fill with tears once again.

            Jon tried again for her hand, and this time she allowed him to take it. He pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed. She felt her body’s urge to relax, to melt into Jon’s familiar arms like the brother and sister they had once been but never allowed themselves to be. But even with Jon, perhaps the one man still alive she trusted, Sansa could not allow her guard to slip. So she closed her eyes against her tears, only relaxing into the gentle dragging of his thumb against the back of her hand. She could allow herself that small comfort.

            “I am so sorry, Sansa,” Jon whispered back. “I am sorry I couldn’t stop him sooner…couldn’t rescue you from King’s Landing. You have suffered more than anyone should. But…”

            “But as my king, you still require this duty of me.”

            “I was going to say you might find happiness in this marriage. A family, children, eventually a new life in Winterfell after the South is secured. You can have that with whichever man you choose.”

            “I would choose no man and find happiness.”

            “I know.” The brush of Jon’s thumb began to slow, and he looked into her eyes. The guilt was still there, and for that Sansa was a little pleased. He should not have become king if he didn’t want the heavy crown that came with it. “Have you thought more of your decision?”

            Sansa gave a slight nod. “I have, though I remain undecided.”

            “Can I help?”

            “Can you see the future?”

            He smiled at that. Sansa brushed away a stray tear and smiled too. “You know I would agree with Daenerys,” Jon said. “She knows Tyrion. Trusts him. And you did say he never hurt you.”

            He wasn’t wrong, but still…still Sansa remained unsure. It was mad to hope she could find anything more than polite friendship with either man, but Jon was right about her wanting a family someday. And she could only do that by sharing her husband’s bed, at least until she was with child. Jaime Lannister was handsome, and she could imagine someday desiring him, but her reaction to him this morning frightened her. If Jaime’s mere touch sent her spiraling back into Ramsay’s nightmare, then what would happen in their marriage bed? She had once feared Tyrion’s touch too, but that was before she knew of such pain. Would she fear Tyrion’s touch just as she feared Jaime’s? Perhaps things would be different with Tyrion, and though she hated to think such impolite thoughts, Sansa wondered if his small stature might make a difference. Jaime could hold her down just as easily as Ramsay had. Tyrion could not. Would her mind be at ease with Tyrion’s touch if her body didn’t find him a threat?

            “Jon,” Sansa said, more clearly. His brows raised as she slipped her hand out of his. “I will come to you and the queen tonight with my decision, as was asked of me. But I must excuse myself for now…I think I know how to come to my conclusion.”

 

* * *

 

 

            The door to the maester’s quarters was open when Sansa arrived, and her eyes quickly landed on Tyrion. He sat in one of the window-side chairs as they had the other day, though today a side table had been dragged forward, and on it rested a pot of ink and a jug of deep red wine. With one hand he raised a goblet to his lips; with the other he tapped a quill against a blank page of his book. It took him a moment before noticing her, but when he drew his goblet away and set it on the table, a smile broke over his face. “Lady Sansa, good. You are actually just the person I hoped to find me up here,” Tyrion said warmly. He gestured towards the empty chair across from him. “Please, come enjoy some of this wine I stole.”

            “Stole?” Sansa asked, entering. She picked up a spare goblet from the corner desk, then held it out for Tyrion to fill. After lowering herself carefully into the chair, she took a small sip. “You know I’m in charge of Winterfell’s stores, don’t you?” she asked lightly, before perching the goblet on her lap.

            “Then you should know I have tasked myself with sampling every new shipment. Westeros has a new queen, after all. We wouldn’t want her to become dissatisfied with our drink and take off on a dragon.” Tyrion sipped his wine through a playful smirk.

            “What a shame that would be,” Sansa responded. At Tyrion’s quirked brow, she knew he understood her meaning. “So why did you hope to see me, my lord?” she added casually, hoping to shift the subject away from her distaste for the dragon queen. “Surely it wasn’t to drink stolen wine.”

            Tyrion tipped back his goblet, draining it, before setting it down with a _clink_. “I am writing a new chapter,” he said, patting the book in his lap. “I’ve come to the part where your sister slays the Night King, and I was hoping you could fill in some of her backstory.”

            Sansa smiled genuinely at the mention of her sister. Gods, Arya was brave. Braver than she could ever hope to be. “I apologize, Lord Tyrion, but I likely know little more than you. Arya said she went to Braavos to train with some company or something of the sort after escaping King’s Landing, but what went on before or during, I know not. She learned to fight, certainly, in a way that would likely make our mother blush.”

            “Catelyn would have been proud as well,” Tyrion said. His eyes lifted from the book to Sansa. They looked almost sad. “Proud of both her daughters.”

            Sansa took a gulp of wine, blocking his eyes from her view, keeping her from answering something she had not an answer for. Before long, the goblet was drained, and when she set it down, she noticed Tyrion’s wary look. He knew she was not one to drink without cause.

            “Lady Sansa…”

            “Lord Tyrion,” Sansa responded. She reached for the jug and poured another glass. She filled up his as well, which he accepted with a nod.

            “You may call me Tyrion, my lady.” Sansa sipped from the brimming cup. Again, she didn’t answer, so he continued on, his words slow and careful. “I know you must decide between my brother and me for your marriage.”

            _What?_ Sansa choked on her wine, and a blush rushed to her cheeks when she felt the cool liquid dripping down her chin and onto her bodice. Sansa looked around, but before she could find anything more suitable than her skirt to mop it up, a red handkerchief appeared before her. “Thank you,” Sansa muttered, dabbing at the stain. With her chin dry and her dress somewhat drier, she looked back to Tyrion, her eyes wide. “Who told you?”

            “No one. Well, I suppose you did, my lady. My brother too.”

            “But—but I never said—” she sputtered.

            “I am still quite a clever man, Sansa. Perhaps I have lost some of my wit over the past years, but it was not hard to reach that conclusion after you asked me of love and my charming brother to teach you in the intimate ways of daggering. Besides, it makes sense, does it not? An alliance between North and South to unite our new queen’s realm.”

            She blinked at him, frowning. _Will this make things better or worse?_ Sansa drained half her glass. Now she could at least learn his thoughts on the matter without dancing around the subject. “What do you think I should do?” she asked quietly, curling her fingers around the stem of her goblet.

            “I will do whatever would please you, my lady. Never mind that our queen has commanded this marriage and could burn us all if we refused.”

            Sansa supposed he was joking, but a smile did not reach her lips. “You would want to marry me again?”

            “If it would please you.”

            “That’s not what I asked.”

            “I know.” Tyrion let out a sigh, and Sansa wrenched her gaze away from her hands. His green eyes were kind, perhaps filled with traces of pity. She could not blame him for that. “I cannot speak of Jaime’s opinions, but I can openly of my own. I believe that we could forge a happy life together,” Tyrion began quietly. “A marriage—a true marriage—to a great lady was never what I envisioned for myself, but what of it? The world is so different now. We are different people now. We were all bound to change in some way after all these wars. But what I want is not of importance here, my lady.” He set his goblet down, then settled back in his chair, eyeing her thoughtfully. “What do you want? What do you need?”

            _I want to be free. I want to stay in Winterfell. I want to remain a Stark_. But none of those things were possible. Sansa was not stupid enough to believe that. Those things had not been possible in a very long time, perhaps ever. Sansa placed her goblet next to his. She rose to her feet and crossed the few paces between them until she stood right before his chair.

            “Lady Sansa?” he asked. She ignored him, dropping down to her knees—it was the only way they could be of eye level. This close, she could see every wiry golden hair of his beard, every scar, every sign of a wrinkle to come. Sansa closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. When they opened, they stared back into Tyrion’s, into green flecked with a gold she had never noticed before. She exhaled.

            “I need you to touch me,” Sansa said shakily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this quick update. The amount of support I have been getting on this fic has truly blown me away, and I really cannot wait to write more for you all and hopefully do it justice. Thank you, as always, for reading :)


	5. Tonight

            “I need you to touch me,” Sansa said shakily.

            “Sansa…”

            “I’m being serious.” She moved her hands from the armrests of his chair to his own, grasping them firmly. That, at least, she could handle. “I need to see if—if what happened with Jaime happens with you.” Tyrion searched her eyes for a moment, waiting, perhaps, for a flicker of uncertainty. He squeezed her hands, then dropped them to reach for her face. He went for her waist with the other, and when his warm fingers made contact, Sansa flinched. “It’s okay,” Sansa muttered. “Keep going. I—I need you to kiss me.” His thumb stroked her skin, brushing back and forth, stopping by the corner of her lips. His eyes were on her mouth too now. Tyrion began to lean forward, but when she felt his breath on her lips her eyes closed instinctively, and her body pulled away slightly. “Go on,” she whispered, voice trembling.

            The hand disappeared from her waist, and the one on her cheek lifted. When Sansa opened her eyes, she watched him tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I cannot, my lady, as much as the part of me that appreciates a woman’s beauty wants to.”

            Sansa frowned and sat back on her heels. She looked down at the floor and felt heat bloom on her cheeks. Suddenly she felt quite embarrassed, down on her knees before him, begging him to touch her. “You don’t want to marry me.” It wasn’t a question.

            “And you don’t want to marry me.”

            Sansa’s blush deepened. _Is he right?_ It was all just so much so sudden. Her body feared both their touches. That was clear now. So who did she want to marry? Who did she want a future with, a family with? “I don’t know,” Sansa answered truthfully.

            Tyrion sighed. “If you chose me, my lady, I would gladly accept. But no, I…I do not believe that is your best option. Nor do I believe that that you desire me more than Jaime. I am under no illusions that I am the handsomer brother.”

            “And your brother is the best option?”

            He pressed his lips together. “Jaime is more suited for a married life. He is handsome and fertile. He loves more passionately than any other man I have known, and he has been a solider for far too long. I know that he is ready to settle down.”

            Sansa finally raised her eyes back to meet his. “I’m afraid,” Sansa whispered, her voice just barely above a breath.

            “I can see that, my lady. But you were afraid at my touch as well, were you not?” Sansa hesitated, then nodded. “You will see that Jaime will not hurt you. Your marriage will not begin with love, my lady, but eventually it may grow to that. At the very least you may form a friendship. A family.”

            “And you think he will accept my hand?”

            Tyrion reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. He brushed a kiss against it before releasing. “If he does not, then you may disregard everything I have said here and drag me to the alter yourself,” Tyrion said with a wink.

 

            When Sansa informed the queen of her decision, Daenerys simply nodded and said calmly, “We will inform Ser Jaime after the meal.” Now Sansa sat in her chair, staring down at her empty plate as her fingers played with her necklace. The meal was over, was it not? She looked to Jon, who caught her eye before glancing at his queen. Sansa thought she saw his hand reach for Daenerys’s beneath the table, but in the dim light she could not be sure. Beside Sansa sat Tyrion, who was busying himself with another goblet of wine, this time an Arbor gold.

            “Ser Jaime,” Daenerys said, looking towards the table he shared with Brienne and some other soldiers. The quiet chatter that had went on all supper slowly faded, and Jaime looked towards the high table with a frown.

            “Your Grace?” Jaime asked.

            “I would like to speak with you, Ser,” Daenerys said. “Step towards the table.”

            Jaime met eyes with Brienne, who shook her head, before complying. He clasped his good hand with the gold behind his back, staring at the queen expectantly. All eyes were on Jaime, and the hall was silent. Jon gave Daenerys a reassuring nod, then the queen began to speak again.

            “Ser Jaime, your presence in this war has aided us greatly, but my rule in Westeros is new and tumultuous. Thanks to Jon, the North has bent the knee and accepted peace, but the South remains far from accepting. As the heir to House Lannister and Casterly Rock, I ask for your service once more to aid us in uniting the North and South.”  

            Jaime nodded, though he was clearly unsure of what exactly she meant. “You want me to take up the lordship of Casterly Rock?”

            Daenerys shifted in her seat, straightening and folding her hands on the table. “Yes, but you won’t be alone.”

            Sansa inhaled sharply— _Gods, it is all about to change again, isn’t it_? Sansa sent out a silent prayer, hoping she had made the right choice.

            “Lady Sansa is to be your bride.”

            And just like that, Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. Jaime’s eyes snapped to her, and she could only hold his blazing gaze for a moment before glancing away.

            “Me?” Jaime asked, his gaze flicking between Sansa and the queen. “I am happy to fight for you, your Grace, but marriage is n—”

            “But marriage is your duty,” Daenerys snapped, causing Jaime to falter. “Your duty to your new queen. I do not need your sword anymore, Ser, but your name. I need an alliance between Stark and Lannister. I need peace.”

            Jaime took a steadying breath, but when he spoke again, a hint of anger played on his tongue. “My brother is a Lannister. Why not him? You trust him more, surely, than the man that slayed your father.”

            The queen flinched at his sharp words, though her expression remained a stern, beautiful mask. “You have earned back my trust, Lannister, due to your role in this war. And I am sure that Lord Tyrion would accept Sansa’s hand if asked.”

            “Then why not ask him!”

            “Because Lady Sansa did not chose him, Ser. She chose you.” Jaime’s brows shot up in surprise, and his gaze whipped back to her. Sansa swallowed thickly and set her chin high. She hoped her face was not as pink as it felt. Jaime’s emerald eyes traveled her up and down, searching for an answer.

            “And when is the ceremony, your Grace?” Jaime said stiffly.

            “Tonight.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Before Jaime could even begin to process the queen’s words, the hall began to disperse. He just barely saw Sansa sweep from the room with Jon and the queen, but when he began to go after her, a hand clasped around his wrist. Jaime looked down to see Tyrion.

            “Care to explain how this happened?” Jaime asked, wrenching free from his brother’s grasp.

            “Oh do keep your voice down, Jaime, or the whole of Winterfell will learn how remarkably stupid you are.”

            “I’m stupid?” Jaime closed his eyes and attempt a few calming breaths.

            “You are if that is your reaction!” Tyrion answered. When Jaime looked back at him, he saw the raw anger in his brother’s eyes. “Sansa Stark is a strong, beautiful woman that any man here would be lucky to marry.”

            “Then why not you? Clearly you already knew about Daenerys’s command. You could have convinced Sansa to marry you instead.”

            Tyrion rolled his eyes. “Did you not hear our queen? Sansa _chose_ you. She went to both of us and in the end she chose you over me. Frankly I don’t believe anyone was about to change her mind…though you might,” Tyrion added darkly. “Now that she has seen what a thick skull you have.”

            Jaime raked a hand through his hair, relishing in the tiny bite of pain that kept him away from his swirling thoughts. “I never expected to marry, Tyrion. I never expected to love another woman.”

            “And you don’t have to. Love her, that is. Sansa did not ask for this, you know, anymore than you did. But by the Gods, she will get some joy from it. Whether that is your friendship or a babe, you must make her happy, Jaime. Be the handsome knight that saves her from this nightmare. Sansa deserves that much.”

            Jaime huffed. He was no shining knight. He had not kept his promise to Catelyn Tully, had not kept her daughters safe. He was an oath breaker, a Kingslayer. Fighting in the dragon queen’s war did not change that. “She deserves better than me,” Jaime whispered.  

            Tyrion nodded, and Jaime saw that the anger had drained from his eyes, just as it had drained from his own, he now realized. All he felt now was a numb kind of shock, like his mind had just been spun like a top that was finally beginning to slow. “She deserves better than either of us,” Tyrion said. “But this was her choice, and you mustn’t make her regret it.”

            His brother was right, of course. Right about it all. Jaime did not want a wife. Sansa did not want a husband. But she deserved a happy life, and if she was forced to find that happiness with Jaime, then he would try to give her that. By the Gods, he would try. It might just take a while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! I know that some of you will be disappointed with this choice, and someday I might write a Tyrion/Sansa fic, but I just cannot get over Jaime and Sansa. I will say that their relationship will not be as easy and romantic as I have written in the past, but we will get there eventually :)


	6. There Are Two Types of Pain

            Her third wedding could have been a dream—it felt both terribly wrong yet terribly right at the same time. People hovered around the edges of the Godswood, out of sight but close enough that Sansa could feel their watching eyes. The snow had all but melted, and it left the soft ground glistening beneath the moonlight streaming through the blood-red canopy. But it was him most of all that made it all unreal, Jaime’s solemn eyes on her, his one hand above her own as they said the words. And when he leaned towards her to seal their vows with a kiss, she could not have said what his lips felt like.

            Before Sansa knew it, Jaime had been swept up into the small crowd, and she felt a hand on her shoulder. Sansa turned to see Daenerys, and she bowed her head. There hadn’t been time to pin up her hair like with her previous weddings, and the wispy tendrils that had escaped her simple braid now swept across her cheeks. “Your Grace,” Sansa said politely.

            “You looked very beautiful, Lady Lannister.” Sansa met the queen’s eyes, and her jaw clenched. _Lady Lannister_. The queen’s choice of words was telling—Sansa was here to serve Daenerys, to marry whomever the dragon queen wanted for her own political agenda. “I apologize we didn’t have time to arrange a proper ceremony,” Daenerys added, her hand dropping back down.

            “I have had two proper weddings already,” Sansa replied. “A third does not matter to me.”

            Daenerys tilted her head, and a thin smile stretched across her lips. “Your wedding to Ser Jaime will be proper in all the ways that count.”

            Sansa matched the queen’s smile, and her fingers curled into her palms, nails digging in to the soft flesh. Again, the queen’s pleasant words carried a deeper meaning, one the queen was sure Sansa understood. _You are to consummate this marriage—tonight._ “Did you enjoy your proper wedding, your Grace? When your brother sold you to the horse lord?”

            The queen’s smile twitched. “I was a child then. But even as a little girl, I realized that you cannot fight what you are powerless against. I survived _because_ I realized that. And now I am a queen…Good luck tonight, Lady Lannister.” Daenerys’s eyes roamed Sansa’s face for a moment, then the queen gave a murmured goodbye and went off to join Jon in the crowd.

            Sansa looked around at the guests, and she let out a long-held sigh. Brienne had her head bent low as she spoke with Tyrion, her hand, as always, placed loosely on her sword pommel. Jon and Daenerys stood off to the side, their backs to Sansa as they leaned into each other’s ears. Gilly and Samwell were talking with some northern lord, and Gilly flashed her a friendly smile before putting her hand on Sam’s back and returning to their conversation.

            “Why are you alone, my lady?”

            Sansa looked up towards the voice. Jaime stood beside her, his eyes trained on the crowd like hers. “I don’t believe I’m quite up to the festivities,” she answered.

            He chuckled. “Some ceremony this is. More pleasant than your first, though, I would imagine.”

            Sansa’s brows pulled together, and she glanced up at him, but his gaze was pointed decidedly towards the guests. “Yes, in some ways.” She tucked a loose stand of hair behind her ear, then sighed when the wind licked it back towards her face. “Better than my second, though.”

            At that Jaime turned towards her. His eyes were still solemn, and his handsome face betrayed no hint at whatever was going in his mind. “I could not have stopped Tywin from marrying you to Tyrion, but I was supposed to protect you after that. On your mother’s orders.”

            “You couldn’t have protected me, Ser Jaime.”

            “If I or Brienne had found you sooner—”

            “I would still be in Lord Baelish’s hands, and I would eventually have found myself in Ramsay’s,” Sansa said sharply. “It’s pointless to think of what we could have done.”

            He fell silent at that, and for a few minutes neither spoke. The wind was beginning to pick up, and though it dragged more tendrils from Sansa’s braid, she didn’t bother fixing it. Just when she wondered if it would be polite to leave her new husband in search of wine, Sansa heard Jaime take a breath beside her. “I promise to protect you now, Sansa,” he said softly, as if the wind had stolen the strength from his voice.

            She couldn’t trust his promise—not now at least, when she knew what kind of man Jaime Lannister had been. But perhaps it was a start. In the crowd, Daenerys looked at her and gave her a knowing look. The guests had begun to make their way back to the castle, and as the queen’s silver hair whipped behind her, Sansa lifted her chin and met Jaime’s eyes. “I want to believe that, my lord.” He gave her a slight nod, and Sansa put her hand on his arm. “I think we’re supposed to go inside now.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime closed the bedchamber door behind him, then turned around to watch Sansa as she stood still in the center of the chamber. Just her eyes moved, taking in the little details of his room for the first time. Although it was not _truly_ his, the Winterfell guest chamber had accumulated some of his things—a thin leather doublet, still stiff with sweat. A pair of boots Jaime had worn holes into soles of. The dark gloves he wore to hide his golden hand. All things, Jaime realized, that must seemed tremendously too personal— _too Jaime_ —to his stranger of a wife. Her eyes dropped to the bed, with its neat furs and feather pillows, and he saw her hands clench around her skirts.

            He cleared his throat, and though she didn’t turn, her fists unclenched. “We don’t have to, my lady.”

            “You know that isn’t true,” Sansa said. Although her voice was level, Jaime thought he heard the faintest tremble at the end. “The queen will have someone listening,” she continued, turning to face him. When Jaime glanced to the door, she added, “Not there, I suppose, but through the walls. Even Winterfell was built to make secrets heard.”

            His eyes flickered over her figure, at her arms crossed protectively across her waist, at the high neckline and simple hairstyle that had grown loose in the Godswood. “I—I don’t want to hurt you. I promised to protect you.”

            Sansa’s lips pursed slightly, and her arms wrapped tighter around her middle. “You won’t.”

            “Lady Sansa, I was not blind to your reaction when we trained with the dagger—”

            “That was unexpected. It won’t happen tonight.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because I have been hurt this way so many times that my body no longer feels any pain,” Sansa said, her voice dropping to harsh whisper. This time it was her turn to let her eyes roam his body up and down before landing on his face. “Besides,” she began, more softly. “I know you are a better man than Ramsay was. I don’t—I don’t believe you would do the things he did.”

            _That’s a start, at least_ , Jaime thought. _A few step above a monster._ Gods, how we wished he could show her otherwise—and although Jaime knew he was a monster in many ways, he was not like the Bolton bastard. He found no pleasure in hurting girls like Ramsay did. “Are you sure you want to do this, Sansa?” he asked again in the same quiet tone. Sansa nodded, and sighed, relenting. “How do you want it to go?” Jaime asked.  

            “My lord?” she asked, taken aback.

            “Tonight I want to do this on your terms, my lady. Clothed or unclothed,” he said, gesturing to her gown. “In the candlelight, or with the flames blown out. Touching, kissing, or…not at all.”

            A pretty blush rose to her cheeks. “I…” she trailed off, and her eyes flitted nervously to the side. Sensing her hesitance, Jaime stepped forward until he stood just before her. He reached for her hair, then asked softly, “May I?” When she nodded, Jaime brushed back the flaming tendrils that framed her face. When his fingers ran against the top of her ear, he heard just a hint of surprised gasp. “Do you want to kiss me?” he murmured as her sky-blue eyes peeked up through her lashes. 

            Sansa hesitated, and when she finally spoke her voice was just a breath. “I do now, but…but I don’t want to when we lie together. Not yet.”

            Jaime smiled. “Okay,” he whispered back. Sansa’s eyes searched his, and after a moment she seemed to realize that he was waiting for her move.

            “Oh,” Sansa said, blushing again. Gods, she was beautiful when she was nervous. Sansa reached for his shoulder first, but when she had to rise to her tiptoes, her hand moved to his chest, and her heels lowered back to the ground. With her palm flat and warm above his heart, Sansa closed the gap between them. Her lips were soft on his, and sweet as the red wine served at supper. The kiss was chaste at first, and Jaime was hesitant to push further or touch her, but the pressure on his chest began to deepen, and her mouth eased open with breathy sigh. Jaime obliged to her touch and stepped closer, placing his hand gently on her waist. He felt her tongue dip into his mouth, and he fought back a groan at the way she pressed tantalizingly closer, yet still a good distance apart with the hand placed between them. Sansa was apparently surprised at her own boldness, or perhaps his response to her kiss, and she broke away. “Thank you, my lord,” Sansa murmured, her hand sliding away. 

            Jaime chuckled. “I do not have to be thanked for obliging my wife in a kiss.”

            “No,” Sansa said quietly. “For…for asking me what I want.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Of course. I want this to be at your pace, my lady. All of it, not just the…”

            “Fucking?” Sansa offered. Immediately she regretted her choice of words as her cheeks seemed to ignite with flames.

            But Jaime just grinned. “Yes, though I would not have used the term in such polite company.”

            “I am not a little girl, Ser. No one has cared for my honor in quite some time.”

            Jaime’s grin began to fade, and he swallowed thickly. Just like that, the comfort that had settled over the room during their kiss faded, replaced with the cool tension she had felt with Jaime for most of the night. He nodded, and though he appeared to attempt another smile, it was weaker than the first, and little light reached his eyes. “Do you want to keep going?”

            _We must,_ Sansa thought, though she kept it to herself. She knew Jaime did not want to keep hearing that, despite it being true. Unlike Sansa who had seen much of the dragon queen during the war, Daenerys was still a stranger to Jaime. He didn’t realize how badly the queen might respond if they didn’t consummate this precious alliance. “I do,” Sansa answered in what she hoped was an assured tone. She glanced down at her gown, then back to Jaime. “Should I…?”

            “Whatever you wish, my lady. I will not be offended if you do not wish to have some old, strange man look upon you.”

            Sansa smiled gratefully at the jest. _If he is playful, then I have little to fear, right?_ she told herself. Ramsay was anything but playful when he forced himself into her bed. “I could use some help then, if you don’t mind, to take this corset off?”

            Jaime nodded, and Sansa turned around. She stood still and silent as his one hand made work of the laces. When the leather finally began to release its iron grasp around her torso, Sansa pulled it away and placed it on the chest at the foot of the bed. Without glancing up at her husband, Sansa slipped the outer piece of her gown from her shoulders and folded it neatly beside the corset. At last, Sansa’s head lifted, and she met Jaime’s eyes. She stood only in her shift and bit her lip to fight the urge to cover herself—it was silly, she knew, when the linen was still thick enough that he could not see anything but her bare arms and collar bone. Jaime did not seem to mind, though, and he smiled warmly.

            “Should we go to bed?” Jaime asked, eyes drifting towards it.

            “I suppose so.”

            “Would you like me to undress?”

            “I…perhaps just the shirt? So you’re not uncomfortable?”

            “Thank you, my lady,” Jaime said. He unlaced and pulled off the doublet, then reached for the hem of his thin shirt. Sansa averted her eyes, then forced herself to look back when the shirt lay discarded on the chest beside her own garments. Jaime’s chest was better built than she had imagined, and a dusting of light hair covered his chest. As her eyes roamed quickly over him, Sansa realized that she was pleased—his build was much different than Ramsay’s, and she imagined that with Jaime’s chest loaming over her, she would not picture Ramsay’s face controlling the knight’s lean body.

            Sansa tore her eyes away and walked to the edge of the bed then awkwardly climbed onto the mattress. She laid down on her side, head propped up in her hand, and watched Jaime approach the bed. Her eyes dropped down to his breeches, and she noticed that the fabric had begun to strain. Sansa rolled over onto her back, closed her eyes, and gulped down a few shaky breaths. Now that it was about to happen, her earlier words felt a bitter lie on her tongue. _You can do this,_ she told herself. _You need to do this. Jaime is handsome and seems kind. You can do this._ She felt the mattress dip down beneath his weight, heard the faint rustle of laces being undone.

            “My lady, if you feel uncom—”

            Her eyes flew open, and looked up and over to see Jaime lying beside her, his face lined with concern. “You’re hard, my lord, don’t pretend I don’t know what that means,” she whispered. “Please, let’s just do this. You may keep the candles lit, you may touch me if you need to, and I would prefer that we do not kiss again, as much as our first one pleased me.” The words flew out in one long, trembling stream, and Sansa cursed herself silently for it. Gods, she was acting so silly, even if those answers were what Jaime claimed to want. _What wife tells her husband how to behave in the marriage bed?_ a voice told her angrily. Sansa bit her lip and waited for him to say something, anything, but his eyes just watched her, solemn again. When he didn’t move, Sansa let out an exasperated sigh and reached for his forearm. She tugged him towards her, and although her pull could not actually force him, Jaime complied and moved to hover above her, his weight balanced on his hands.

            “Sansa…”

            “Do it,” she whispered. She raised a hand and cupped his cheek. “I would not lie to you—I am ok with you doing this.” She saw Jaime’s throat constrict, then he murmured a quiet acceptance. He closed his eyes, perhaps steeling himself, and when they opened again Sansa had her skirts bunched at her waist. Jaime’s breath washed over her face, warm and sweet. She closed her eyes. His hand gently nudged apart her legs. She let them part, and her body stiffened when his weight lowered between her thighs. The tip of Jaime’s cock found her core. Cold washed over her, like ice in her veins that threatened to freeze her solid. He pressed inside of her with a low moan of pleasure, and Sansa let her mind slip away from the frozen creature that was her body…

            It was the warmth of his seed that roused her, the sound of his sigh as he slipped out of her. Her eyes blinked open, and she stared at the stone ceiling above her. Sansa waited for his weight to leave the mattress, to leave her side or at the very least curl up in the opposite direction, but he made no move to go. After waiting another moment, Sansa shifted her head slightly to look at him. Jaime was sitting up now, his knees bent, his elbows resting atop them. He was gazing at her with that sad look he’d worn throughout the day.

            “It hurt you,” Jaime murmured. His arm moved, as if he was going to reach for her, but then it settled back onto his knee.

            “No. I felt no pain,” Sansa whispered back. She turned her gaze back to the ceiling. “You were very gentle.”

            “I…I don’t mean in your body, my lady. I watched you leave your body.”

            She would have laughed bitterly, if she hadn’t been instilled with courtesy since birth. “Am I a warg now, like my brother Bran? If only I had known sooner.”

            “I don’t mean with magic. Your mind left your body behind—I don’t know if you even realized it was happening before you were gone. Your body moved with me, and you were lovely, my lady, but…but _you_ were just…gone.”

            “And how do you know I left?”

            “Because I watched the light flicker out of your eyes when we started to fuck.”

            Sansa met his eyes, and she frowned. “I apologize if this sounds uncourteous, Ser Jaime, but I do not know you, and you do not know me. How would you know what happens to my mind when a man lies with me?” she asked, her voice growing stronger as she spoke.

            Jaime nodded, then his arm lifted. She thought he might reach out for her in comfort before she realized it was his right arm moving. Jaime raised up his golden hand, and Sansa’s eyes flicked over the spot where gleaming metal morphed into flesh. His other hand met the gold, and after unbuckling a strap, he pulled it from his wrist. Sansa breathed out a gasp at the stump, at the warped flesh marked with ugly white scars across the top.

            “I don’t know what your pain feels like, my lady. And I don’t ever want to pretend to. But I know what happens to my mind when my body feels something similar. I disappear,” he said softly, running a finger along the top of the stump. He dropped the arm back to his side. “I disappeared when they took my hand, and for many months after. And I did for years when it was my duty to do nothing as both of the kings I served forced themselves upon their wives.”

           

 


	7. Goodbyes

            “I disappeared when they took my hand, and for many months after. And I did for years when it was my duty to do nothing as both of the kings I served forced themselves upon their wives.”

            Jaime watched Sansa’s eyes flick from his stump to his face. “How did you get it—your mind—to stop leaving?” she asked shyly. Sansa sat up and drew her knees to her chest. Like this, dressed only in her shift and with her hair braided loosely down her back, she looked more like the little girl Jaime had first glimpsed when he visited Winterfell all those years ago. Jaime wanted to reach for her, to apologize for taking this girl on her back like her previous husband probably had despite knowing she had asked him to do his duty. But he didn’t move, and he answered her truthfully.

            “Time, I suppose,” Jaime said. “Now that I have put years between these…events, it’s hard to remember the pain, and I needn’t leave when I am reminded of them. But that was just me, my lady. I don’t know how long it shall take for you to forget the Bolton bastard’s touch.”

            Sansa pressed her cheek against her knees, looking away from him so he couldn’t read her face. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this. Me.”

            “Hey,” Jaime said, his mouth twisting with guilt. He tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder, and although she flinched slightly, she did not pull away just yet. “Lady Sansa, look at me.” When she finally lifted her head back towards him, he saw how glassy her eyes were, how pink kissed her pale cheeks and rimmed her eyes. “We do not know each other. It will take time to trust one another, but I am prepared to try. I never imagined what my life would be like after these wars…after Cersei died and I remained living. But I will try to be better for you, my lady, because you chose me. To be kinder and more patient. I don’t know why, and perhaps you don’t either, but I will accept whatever comes of it.”

            Sansa nodded, and she wiped at her cheek with the heel of her hand. “I want to try too.”

 

* * *

 

            Her husband fell asleep before she did, and Sansa lay awake for hours, staring at the back of him. His chest rose and fell softly, easily, and during sleep all the stiffness in his body had been eased away. He looked younger now, and kinder, than he appeared during the day’s harsh sun or the night’s orange glow. Unruly grey hairs peppered the cropped golden locks at the nape of his neck. She licked her thumb, then smoothed it over the hairs until they flattened beneath her touch. Jaime stirred, and Sansa yanked her hand away, but he only rolled over to face her, still deep in his dreams. Sansa let her eyes roam freely now, and although Jaime had put his shirt back on, the hard lines of his chest and arms still rippled through the thin fabric. With his face towards her, his age was unmistakable, at least twice her own, and Sansa could not help but wonder if this had always been her destiny. To marry a handsome knight old enough to be her father or uncle. To lie in bed beside a man who tried to be kind but had been so cruel in the past. To give her body up for the sake of others instead of love. It was all there in the true story books, the ones that documented the sad histories of ladies like herself.

            _I will try to be better for you._ Jaime’s words washed through her mind as she gazed at his face, at his mouth open slightly, at the softness sleep brought to his hard and handsome features. In the peaceful hours before dawn, she could almost believe he was telling the truth.

 

            When Sansa woke, the bed was empty. Sansa put a hand on his side—the furs were cold. At least now she could dress without fretting over him watching. Luckily she only had to wait a few minutes between she heard the familiar knock of her servant at the door, and Sansa dressed and had her hair brushed.

            “Shall I braid it as usual?” the girl, Henna, asked as she combed it through.

            Sansa looked down, and she rubbed the end of a long lock through her fingers. “No. I shall wear it down today,” Sansa answered. She dropped the hair and glanced up at Henna—the servant’s lips were pursed knowingly. “What?”

            Henna shook her head, but a smile had begun to break through as she continued brushing. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with Ser Jaime?”

            “No,” Sansa said too quickly, before kicking herself inwardly when her cheeks felt hot. Of course Henna was right, though—the most vivid memory she had of last night was his fingers brushing back her hair and what followed. That was before they went to bed, before he began to fuck her. Sansa didn’t remember much after he climbed on top of her, but his fingers in her hair and that kiss—she remembered that, and it was not an unpleasant memory. “I thought I might try something different. That’s all.”

            Henna put the brush back down and folded her hands behind her back. “Then you’re all ready for breakfast, Lady Lannister.”

 

            Sansa was surprised to find only Jon and Daenerys in the great hall—the other tables were covered in dishes, but empty. “Am I late?” Sansa asked as she took her seat beside Jon.

            “Not at all,” Jon answered. “It’s surprisingly warm outside, despite the clouds rolling in from the south, and many of the knights left early to train in the courtyard before the rain starts.”

            “Your husband included,” Daenerys added lightly. The queen sipped from a steaming goblet, then without even looking at Sansa, she said, “Speaking of which, I’m told the consummation was successful.”

            Jon nearly spit out the piece of fried bread he had been chewing. “Dany,” Jon growled, but the queen simply shrugged and set her goblet down, turning to face him.

            “We don’t need to pretend we’re children ignorant to what happens in bed,” Daenerys told him pointedly.

            “Yes, but…but Sansa doesn’t need to be reminded at breakfast—”

            “She’s stronger than you think.”

            “Not after what Ramsay did! She doesn’t need every person in this damn castle asking her about—”

            Sansa scraped back her chair and rose to her feet. Jon and Dany fell silent, still glaring at each other. “We did consummate the marriage, your Grace. Now if you will excuse me, I think I’ll take my breakfast elsewhere.”

            “Wait, Sansa,” Jon said, standing too. He glanced at Daenerys, who wore a pleased expression, then back to Sansa. “You should know that we leave this afternoon. Dany and I will set out for White Harbor, and you and Ser Jaime on the Kingsroad to treat with the lords along the way.”

            Sansa frowned—she knew Daenerys wanted this marriage cemented quickly, but to leave tonight… “What about Winterfell? The castle is still half-destroyed. I can’t just leave—we can’t just leave,” Sansa said, correcting herself.

            “It’s not for long, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys said. “Once you and Ser Jaime have secured the South for the crown, you shall return to your rebuilt home. As your husband, Ser Jaime will take the title as Warden of the North beside his Lady of Winterfell.

            “And while we’re away?”

            “As our Hand, Lord Tyrion will look after the castle and its people,” Jon answered quietly, like he didn’t quite believe the words himself. “Tyrion will then take up the lordship of Casterly Rock.”

            Sansa let out a sour laugh, and she looked incredulously at Jon. “You can’t be serious. Do you not remember father’s words? That there must always be a Stark in Winterfell?”

            “That was before,” Daenerys answered for him. “Your home will be safe, and when you finally return, the South will be too.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Jaime ducked away from Brienne’s cutting blow. “Are you trying to kill me?” he snapped, steadying himself on the balls of his feet. Jaime stuck his own sword in his scabbard. “I think we’ve done enough training for one morning.” He turned, passing through the other pairs of people training, then stopped when he felt a hand on his arm. Jaime turned and met Brienne’s eyes.

            “Are you going to leave without telling me?” she asked. Her face shone with sweat, and her pale hair stuck up in odd ways against her forehead.

            “How do you know…”

            “I heard the queen discussing it this morning. You’re all to ride out by midday.” Brienne sheathed her sword, her gaze ducking away. “You and your bride. And Podrick, apparently.”

            Jaime sighed, and he raked a hand through his own damp hair. “You know I didn’t ask for this. Any of it.”

            When Brienne glanced back up, her eyes were hard and clear. “It’s your turn to protect her now, Jaime. I…I won’t be going south with you.”

            “Why not?”

            The hard line of her jaw faltered slightly, and Jaime thought he saw a flicker of pain and pride flash across her face. “The queen has asked me to join her Queensguard. I shall sail with her and Jon to Whiteharbor.”

            Jaime smiled, but he hoped it did not betray the sadness creeping through his chest at Brienne’s words. “That is quite the honor,” he said softly, holding out his hand. “Ser Brienne of Tarth, knight of the Queensguard.”

            Brienne let out a shaky breath and grasped his hand. “This goodbye then.”

            “For now.”

            Brienne smiled and blinked away the budding of tears filling in her eyes. “For now,” she agreed with a whisper.

 

            Jaime stood back with Podrick and the other men set to ride south with them as Sansa said her goodbyes to Jon, Sam, Gilly, and the others. He clutched the reins of both their horses, his thumb smoothing methodically over the supple leather as he tried not to listen. He finally glanced up when he heard their final words of parting. Sansa strode towards him, and he pulled the reins over her dappled mare’s head. Sansa gave a muttered thanks, then allowed him to place his hands on her waist, hoisting her up. Once Sansa settled into her saddle, Jaime climbed up into his, and they began walking towards the gate.

            “Good luck, Ser Jaime,” Daenerys said as they stepped up beside her. Jaime tugged on the reins and dipped his head.

            “As with you, your Grace. King’s Landing is a horrid city to rule.”

            “Then we shall do our best to make it less so.”

             “I believe it.” His eyes drifted past the queen to Brienne behind her, and his throat constricted. _Goodbye, Brienne_ , he wanted to say. But they had already said their goodbyes, and everything he could say felt wrong to say aloud now, with Sansa and the queen and all the others watching and waiting. So Jaime simply nodded, and he pressed his heels into his horse’s side. They walked swiftly into the forests surrounding the castle, and soon the quiet buzz of Winterfell gaze way to the wild’s loud silence and Podrick’s even louder singing.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that I didn't want to actually kill Pod off, so he's back and ready to squire for yet another of our fav's. Anyway, I know this is a slower chapter, but I felt the need to set up what's to come. Thanks for reading :)
> 
> UPDATE: Ya'll kept pointing out how they shouldn't be leaving at night, so now they're leaving at midday.


	8. The White Knife Inn

            Jaime made sure that their small party used the hours of daylight left wisely, and when Podrick began to mutter about his grumbling stomach and Sansa chimed in with her agreement, they were only a mile or so from the inn just beyond Castle Cerwyn alongside the river. After the devastation to Winterfell and the surrounding northern lands during the war, the inn was likely to be open but safely devoid of those in opposition to the new Targaryen monarchs. Once they handed their horses off to the wizened stable hand who clung to a wine skin like it was a sword, Jaime stepped inside with Sansa, Podrick, and their four Winterfell guards behind him.

            Apparently his assumptions were correct—the main room of the inn was empty save for a thin woman bent over the hearth. She chucked a log onto the fire, then straightened as Jaime approached. She had a young face, perhaps in her thirties, though whatever beauty it may have had was coated in a thick layer of soot. Her hands too, and when she wiped them on her apron, they were no cleaner than before. “You’ll be looking for rooms?” she asked, eyeing them hopefully. Her gaze flickered to his golden hand, then to Sansa behind him.

            “We are,” Jamie answered, tucking his right hand behind his back. “I don’t suppose that’ll be a problem?”

            “Oh no,” the innkeep said. “You can have your pick of the rooms. Only if you’re willing to pay, that is. Can’t be sheltering and feedin’ mouths from the kindness of my own heart nowadays.”

            Jaime nodded. “Podrick, pay the nice woman and see that the horses, yourself, and the guards are fed. Lady Sansa,” Jamie began, turning to face her. “If you’d like to go up—”

            “I can accompany Podrick,” she said, before Jaime could say more. When he cocked his head, she gave him a tiny smile. “When there’s food ready, I’ll come up and find you. I’m sure you’re wearier than I after sparring all morning.”

            “Very well then,” Jaime said. He gave her a smile, nodded again to the innkeep, then made his way up the narrow staircase. As he checked out the several rooms—all empty, as the woman promised—his thoughts drifted to Sansa below. _Perhaps she’s sick of you already_ , a nagging voice said from the back of his mind. _She’d rather spend the night with Podrick than the Kingslayer._ He was being silly though, wasn’t he? Of course Sansa wanted to spend more time with Podrick; he was closer to her own age and had an annoyingly perky personality. The two had had quite the time together during their ride today, trading songs about knights and ladies and beasts. Jaime had listened from the front of their party, though even when he recognized the songs, he’d kept his mouth closed and his eyes on the road ahead. He wasn’t a boy and hadn’t been for a many, many years—there was no time left for Jaime Lannister to sing pretty songs with pretty girls.

            After looking through their room options, Jaime chose the one end the end of the hall. It had one of the only feather beds in the inn, a welcome sight for Sansa and himself, though he had managed with much worse over the years. Two windows faced out onto the White Knife, a dark, swift river with deep banks and snarling plants crowding along its edge. Jaime walked over to the adjacent room, and he peaked inside to see an empty copper tub. Just when the idea of a hot bath seemed too good to be true, a knock sounded at the door.

            “Sorry to bother you, m’lord,” the innkeep said when he pulled it open. “Your lady downstairs thought you might like a bath.” She looked to the ground, and Jaime opened the door wider to see a hefty bucket of steaming water. “It’ll take a few trips, but I can fill it up for you now if you like.”

            _How thoughtful_ , Jamie mused, as he agreed to let the innkeep inside. _In more ways than one_. As much as he secretly hoped that Sansa had just been thinking of him, he knew that the extra coin for the bath would earn them more of the innkeep’s trust. They were on Cerwyn lands now, and despite their closeness to Winterfell, Jaime was told that the Cerwyns had not been loyal to the Starks when the Boltons took Winterfell. Apparently Sansa knew better than to risk the news of their marriage getting out to those between Winterfell and the Westerlands. As the innkeep scurried out to fetch more water, Jaime found himself admiring Sansa’s foresight.

            At last the tub was filled, and Jaime gratefully stripped off his dusty clothes, left them in a pile on the bed, and sank blissfully into the hot water. The tub was small, and Jaime’s knees bent up so that their tops stuck out from the water. He took hold of the sponge sitting on the squat table beside the tub and went to work scrubbing off the sweat that had accumulated after a day of training and riding. When the water was brown and beginning to grow cold, Jaime let his head fall back against the rim. He closed his eyes and sighed, and it was not until he heard the door creak that he opened them again. “Lady Sansa, is that you?”

            “Yes,” she called back. He heard the hefty thud as a tray was set down on their dining table. “I can go back downstairs if you’re not done.”

            “No, no,” Jaime said, groaning as he put his hand on the tub’s rim and pushed himself up. “You should starting eating before the food’s cold…actually, could see if there are any cloths to dry off on?” he added, still standing in the murky water. It came up only to his knees, and Jaime felt painfully exposed for some reason, despite having never cared about his nakedness in the past. He listened to Sansa shuffle around for a moment, before she called back that she found some spare linen. For a second Jaime considered sitting back down, but just as he began to lower himself, Sansa appeared in the doorway.

            “Here,” Sansa said, her eyes falling to the ground and her cheeks turning pink. “And I brought up some kidney pie.” She held the cloth out to him, and before he could even get out a thank you, she disappeared inside the bedroom. After he had dried off, Jaime joined her in the room and pulled his clothes on. He kept his back to her, wondering the whole time if she was watching—it was her right, of course, as his wife, though Jaime knew he would feel ashamed if their positions were switched. With his breeches and thin shirt on, he turned towards her and found her gaze pointedly on her half-eaten pie.

            “It was very clever of you to pay for the bath,” Jaime said, pulling up a chair and sitting across from her. “Good customers mean tighter lips. Or so we should hope.”

            “And a cleaner man sharing my bed,” Sansa mused. She glanced up at him, and Jaime chuckled.

            “I don’t smell that bad,” Jaime replied.

            “You don’t _now_.”

            They fell into a comfortable silent as they worked on their pies. Jaime kept glancing at her as they ate, wondering what was going on in in her head, if she regretted allowing him to lie with her last night. And of course he wondered what she wanted now and the days and months and years to come. He imagined it would be quite difficult to share a bed with her for the rest of their lives without sleeping together—even last night, as her mind drifted elsewhere, it had felt sinfully, shamefully _good_. Jaime had not been with a woman since King’s Landing, since Cersei, and no matter how many times the reasonable part of his mind reminded him that fucking her was wrong, his body reminded him how much he desired her. Sansa deserved never having to touch him again if she didn’t want to, but Jaime couldn’t truthfully say that he wouldn’t be disappointed.

            “What happens next?”

            Jaime looked up at her in surprise, then noted that both their plates were empty. “Tonight?” he asked, sitting back and frowning.

            “During our journey,” Sansa clarified. “Daenerys and Jon want us to secure the south for the crown. Where do you propose we start?”

            _Ah_ , Jaime thought, thankful she wanted to discuss politics rather than their marriage. “I fear we won’t do much good until we reach the trident. The Riverlands were devastated during the war at the hands of my house. I doubt they’ll open their doors to us.”

            “You might be surprised,” Sansa countered. “Many loved my mother and grandfather dearly. Who’s to say they won’t welcome Catelyn Tully’s daughter too?”

            “Even when you’re a Lannister?”

            “I may bear your name, my lord, but I still have my mother’s looks.”

            And that she did. Jaime hadn’t seen Catelyn in years, but he had to agree that Sansa was the spitting image of her mother, though more obviously beautiful than Catelyn had been. Sansa was softer too, more porcelain than steel, though Jaime wondered if that was more of an act than she let on. It would explain how she survived in King’s Landing. Jaime’s gaze ran over her hair, then met her eyes, and he noticed that they had that far-away look again. “I am sorry for what my family did to her and your brother,” Jaime said. He eyed her hand lying on the table, tempted to take it, but he held himself back. “If I had known what Tywin was planning…”

            “What? What would you have done? Would you have stopped it even if that meant disobeying your father and king?” she spit back, unblinking.

            Jaime pressed his lips into a hard line. _Of course you wouldn’t_ _have stopped it. Not back then._ “I would have tried to stop how brutally it was done,” Jaime answered quietly.

            She tore her eyes away from his and cast her gaze to the darkness outside the window. “I’m sorry too,” she murmured, after a moment of taut silence. “For your family’s deaths.” Jaime’s brows pulled together in surprise, and he wondered how much she knew of his and Cersei’s relationship. Perhaps now would be a good time to bring it up, before she had time to hate him less. “It isn’t easy to lose the ones you love. Especially your children, I imagine,” Sansa added, stopping that line of thinking before it could go further. Jaime felt his breath catch in his throat, and he when he spoke again, his words were quiet and careful.

            “My lady, I…I know that you must despise me for that part of my past, and—”

            “I don’t,” she retorted.

            “You don’t?”

            Sansa’s gaze roamed the room as she shook her head before finally landing back on him. “How can I? I mean, if you still think any of it was good for yourself or the realm—”

            “I don’t,” Jaime said firmly.

            “Then I am not the one to judge your sins. Whatever gods you follow, they will eventually decide, but if I am to be your wife, my lord…I must only judge the man you are now. The one you chose to be.”

            Jaime swallowed thickly, and the corners of his mouth quirked. “You continue to surprise me, Lady Sansa.”

            Sansa returned his smile, though it faded as quickly as it came. “I think I shall retire now, if you don’t mind,” she said, standing and smoothing her skirts.

            Jaime nodded. “Of course. I should go check that Podrick and the guards have settled well.” She moved to the bed, and Jaime cast her a lingering look before he eased open the door and left her alone to undress in peace.

 

* * *

 

            At first Sansa thought she had woken to the birds—but no, the windows were firmly shut, and the inn was silent. Sansa cracked open her eyes, smiling at the warmth enveloping her, before she noticed the hand. Her body tensed, quickly taking in the feeling of the arm slung loosely over her side, the breath against the crown of her head. Gingerly, Sansa grasped Jaime’s wrist and slid his arm off of her, then scampered as gently as she could off the bed.

            Jaime was still blissfully asleep and hadn’t taken off his shirt before returning to their bed last night. She had only been half awake then, though from her hazy memory, he had been nowhere near her when he climbed into bed. She supposed it was to be expected though, and it wasn’t as if she could ask him again and again not to touch her. He was her husband, after all, allowed to with her as he pleased if he so wished. Sansa hoped that she could keep pushing those wishes back now that their marriage was consummated, but in truth she had no idea what he might ask or do. He was a stranger, still, despite the few conversations they’d had. A handsome stranger her body remained terrified of.

            Sansa bent down and picked up yesterday’s garments—she’d have to remind Podrick to bring her things inside when they stayed at inns, as he surely wasn’t used to looking after a lady that wore things other than the same suit of armor. After dressing, Sansa slipped downstairs to find only Podrick spooning porridge into his mouth.

            “Good morning, Podrick,” she said pleasantly. The innkeep came over with a fresh bowl, which Sansa gratefully accepted before joining him at the table.

            “Morning, m’lady. Did you sleep well?” he asked, before his cheeks turned red and his eyes grew wide. Podrick hurriedly swallowed a mouthful of porridge. “Not that I meant anything about Ser Jaime or you or—”

            “It’s all right,” Sansa said, laughing. “We are married after all. And yes, I slept quite well.”

            “I thank you, m’lady, but I shouldn’t even be thinking such things about you and m’lord.”

            “No? And you don’t think about them for yourself?” At that Podrick nearly choked on his breakfast, sending Sansa into another fit of stifled giggles. “I’m only jesting, Podrick, though from what both Tyrion and Brienne have mentioned to me, you do quite well with the ladies.”

            Podrick’s cheeks grew impossibly redder, and he stood, knocking himself on the table in the process. “I must get going, m’lady. To—to ready the horses. It was lovely talking to you. M’lady.” Podrick turned on his heel, and as he made his way towards the door, Jaime appeared at the base of the staircase and gave him a curious look as he passed.

            “I didn’t recall the boy being so nervous,” Jaime remarked as he accepted a bowl of porridge and took Podrick’s seat.

            “He’s not usually,” Sansa said, sighing. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned his infamous love life.”

            Jaime snorted as he scooped porridge into his mouth. “Any man would get nervous if a beautiful girl asked about his love life.” Sansa felt her cheeks tinge pink, though thankfully Jaime was too busy with his breakfast to notice. Just as with supper last night, his words faded into an easy silence she was grateful for. It was rather tiring to stoke idle conversation with a person she didn’t know well, especially when that person was supposed to be your loving husband.  

            “How far do you think we’ll ride today?” Sansa eventually asked, when Jaime had finished his food.

            “Not far at all, unfortunately,” Jamie replied, looking up from his bowl. “Even with our small party and good horses, it will take a week or so to even reach Moat Cailin, and that’s if we have the weather on our side.”

            “We’ll be camping, then? From my last journey on the Kingsroad, I don’t remember many inns or villages.”

            “I’m afraid so. If I had a quicker way…”

            Sansa shook her head with a smile. “There isn’t one, unless you’d risk passing through the Neck.”

            “I reckon that would make things even worse,” Jaime said. He glanced at her bowl, which Sansa had finished a while ago. “Are you ready to get started?”

            Sansa nodded, and she fell into step behind him. When Jaime reached the door, Sansa turned back around. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said kindly to the innkeep behind the counter. The woman flashed her a tight-lipped nod, then ducked into kitchens. _How odd_ , Sansa thought, as she followed Jaime to the stables. _She was so kind last night, telling Podrick and me tales from the area._ She shrugged it off, though, assuming the innkeep was just disappointed to let paying customers go. When they stopped outside the stables to wait for the guards and Podrick to finish readying the horses, Sansa cast her gaze around, frowning. The surrounding forest wqw just as quiet as when they arrived, but as far as she could tell, the old stable hand was gone, and Sansa couldn’t recall seeing him in the inn either.

            “Podrick,” Sansa said, when he handed her the reins. “Do you remember the old man here last night?”

            “Aye,” he said, giving her pretty mare a pat on the neck. “He must be off drinking instead of doing his job, though—the horses didn’t have fresh hay or water when I checked on them last night or this morning.”

            Sansa muttered her thanks and allowed the squire to help her into the saddle. She frowned as she gathered the reins, then glanced at Jaime, but he was busy fiddling with his golden hand. _Perhaps he was just a forgetful drunk, and the innkeep bitter about losing coin,_ Sansa mused as they took off at a comfortable trot down the Kingsroad. Although it was unlikely, Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if this was the start of difficult journey south.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed my updates notes on the last chapter, Podrick is as you can see very much alive!   
> I hope you don't mind this longer chapter, and thanks for reading :)


	9. Safe

            The first half of the day passed in a blur. Jaime kept their party at a steady pace along the King’s Road, though when he allowed everyone to take a break, he found himself glancing over at Sansa. The sky was a searing blue without a cloud in sight, and his wife looked better than he had ever seen her. With the sun warming her pale cheeks and her hair glinting like copper and a smile playing across her face when Podrick said something amusing, she almost looked happy.

            “What is it?” he heard her say.

            “Nothing, my lady,” Jaime said, realizing he had been caught watching. “You look good up on a horse, that’s all.”

            Sansa smiled, apparently pleased at his compliment. “I didn’t stay cooped up inside the castle walls my whole life, you know. I spent much of my childhood cantering about on my pony in the Wolfswood.”

            Jaime tugged on the reins so she could ride up next to him. “Your mother didn’t mind?”

            She shrugged. “I suppose she was quite relieved when I grew older and chose to stay inside rather than run around with Robb.”

            Jaime chuckled. “My father was the same, only it was the Sunset Sea he wanted to keep me out of.”

            “The sea?”

            “The cliffs of Casterly Rock look out upon it. If you’re foolish enough like I was as a boy, you jump from the top and pray for calm waters to catch you below.”

            “I’d be worried sick to have my children jumping off those cliffs,” she mused.

            “Yes, I suppose I would too…” Jaime’s voice trailed off, and he peered over at Sansa. _Children, she said._ She didn’t mean _their_ children, did she? Jaime bit his bottom lip and gripped his reins tighter. He supposed Sansa would want children someday, but with him?

            “Do you suppose there might be somewhere to wash tonight?” Sansa asked, thankfully changing the subject.

            Jaime felt an inward stab of guilt—he hadn’t even thought if she might want a bath back at the inn. “There’s likely to be a creek coming off of the river,” Jaime answered. As they hadn’t yet reached the Barrowlands, the land was still pretty heavily forested. It would make good cover for the night as well as put some foliage between Sansa and the rest of their party while she washed. “I’ll make sure we stop somewhere by the water when we make camp.”

            “Thank you, my lord,” she said, smiling politely. With that she dipped her head, stuck her heel into her horse’s side, and spun her mare back around. Jaime watched her walk back over to Podrick. She giggled at something Podrick said, and the two fell back into a conversation like it hadn’t even stopped. Jaime set his eyes back on the road stretching before them, and he kicked his horse into a quick trot. After a second, Sansa and Podrick’s chatter was replaced with the steady pounding of hoofbeats against the dusty earth.

 

            They made it a dozen or so miles before the sun hung low and orange behind the hills to the west. As they scouted for a good spot to make camp, one of the guards pointed out a shallow creek peeking out behind the trees. Jaime led the way back to a nearby patch of ground nestled between a thicket of old, grey trees and plush ferns, and after dismounting, he ordered the guards to set up for the night. While the Northmen and Podrick set out collecting fire, hunting down a few rabbits, and pitching the tents, Jaime and Sansa picked their way back through the wood to the creek. The bank sloped gently down to clear water, and though it was narrow, the creek looked deep enough that it would go up to Sansa’s waist. Luckily it had been a fairly warm day and the water would have been warmed by the sun.

            “I’ll just, um, stay back by the tree line,” Jaime said when he realized Sansa was waiting for his approval. She already had her boots off, and she tossed them back towards the trees. “Do you need anything?”

            Sansa shrugged off her riding cloak. “Would you keep this for me?” she asked, holding it out to him. After Jaime folded the cloak over his arm, she looked down, and her fingers twisted into the wool of her dress.

            “Do you want me to take that too?” Jaime asked. After a moment of hesitation, Sansa nodded, and she turned so that her back was to him.

            “If you could just undo the outer laces, I think I’ll keep the shift on to wash,” she said quietly.

            “Won’t you get cold?” he asked, working at the leather cords.

            Sansa chuckled. “That’s why you hold on to my other dress,” she responded. “So I can switch into a dry one afterwards.”

            “Ah.” Jaime’s hand lifted away, and he watched her slide the dress down over her hips and step out from the dark pool of fabric. When she turned back around to hand him the discarded layer, Jaime’s eyes fell down, wandering over the cream-colored shift that hugged her curves. Unlike the night of their wedding when the shift had shown nothing beneath it, the fabric was slightly transparent in the setting sun, hinting at her small breasts, her slim stomach and thighs. _Gods, she really is beautiful_ , he thought, folding the dress over the cloak. _And I’ve done nothing to deserve her._ At least his wife didn’t want him to touch her or lie with her—that would make him feel twice as guilty.

           

* * *

 

            “You were going to wait by the tree line?” she asked as his eyes snapped up from her body to meet her own. It was obvious that he had been looking, and though his gaze made her stiffen instinctively, a part of her wondered if she liked what he saw. If she would like what was under his layers of fabric. But to find out would mean her accepting this man into her bed, and Sansa knew she was not ready for that. Not like he wanted it, with her actually _there_ in bed instead of far away in the comfort of her memories.

            “Right,” Jaime responded, clearing his throat and straightening. “I’ll be just over there,” he said, gesturing to the trees. “I’ll have my back to the water, so call for me if you need anything.”

            Sansa watched him gather her boots and settle down behind a peeling oak, his back against the trunk and her discarded clothes beside him. Sansa lifted the hem of her skirt and dipped a toe into the water—it was cold, but better than she had hoped. After steeling herself for the sudden chill, Sansa waded into the creek until the water crept up to navel. She shivered at first, her body revolting against the cold, but Sansa forced herself to keep moving, to turn slowly around in sun-warmed water. She let her head fall back, let her spine arch and her hair fan out like a crown of fire. Overhead, the sky was a dusky purple, and the branches of the onlooking trees waved their crooked fingers in the breeze.

            _We could stay here forever_ , Sansa thought as she dragged her fingertips along the surface. _Even when the sky turns black and the air turns bitter. We could stay till summer, when sky is hot blue and the forest lights up with fireflies._ In the pretty picture in her mind, Jaime splashed and played beside her, younger and less grey. In her mind, he was the handsome knight of the storybooks. He stole kisses beneath the trees and held her hand as they walked along the bank, their bare feet sinking into the soft earth. And when they laid back against the grassy slopes, laughing and breathing hard, his fingers brushed against her cheek, warm and strong.

            “ _Sansa_.”

            She lifted her head towards the trees, and her arms sank back towards her sides. That was definitely Jaime’s voice she’d heard, hushed and muffled in the wind. Sansa waded closer to the bank, and she saw Jaime on his feet, stepping out from behind the tree. “What is it?” she called back in a similarly hushed tone. Jaime turned towards her. His jaw was clenched, and his hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Sansa began swimming back to the bank, but Jaime held out a hand, gesturing for her to be still.

            “Listen,” he whispered, cocking head. Sansa frowned but closed her eyes. At first she heard only the breath of the wind and the animals creeping out for the night, but soon she heard the others too—the familiar song of steel hitting steel, the grunts of exertion, the irregular rustle of boots stepping and sliding against the soil. The chill of fear poked pins into her skin, and goosepimples rushed up her arms.

            “Jaime, you have to go help,” Sansa whispered as her eyelids flew open.

            He shook his head. “And leave you here unprotected?” he spat back. Sansa flinched at his harshness. “Whoever’s there doesn’t know _we’re_ here,” Jaime said. “If I join the fight…”

            “If we do nothing we’re just sitting ducks and it’ll be just you against however many there are of them,” Sansa whispered back. “My apologies, Ser, but I think our odds are better if you help the guards who have both hands.” He glared at her and opened his mouth, but a familiar yelp of pain from deeper in the woods filled it instead— _Podrick_. Sansa grabbed her sopping wet skirts and ran for the bank. She felt Jaime’s hand grab her wrist, but she flung him off and began sprinting towards their camp. She heard Jaime’s curse and the rustle of fabric before his footsteps joined her own. Branches and brambles tore at her shift, and pain sprouted in her bare feet, but Sansa ignored it all until she came crashed into the clearing and skidded to a halt. Jaime emerged just after her. “Gods,” Sansa breathed out.

            There were ten bodies on the ground—their four Northmen, six she didn’t know—and all were covered in blood. Podrick crouched above a big-bellied, bearded man, and as he rose to his feet, Podrick’s sword slowly emerged from the attacker’s throat. Sansa felt her own throat constrict as she choked down a gulp of air. She looked down at her hand. It was shaking.

            “Podrick, what happened here?” Jaime asked. He set down the bundle of her discarded clothes and boots, then picked his way over the bodies towards Podrick. Numbly, Sansa followed her husband, but when she glanced down at the man Podrick just drew his sword from, a wave of nausea washed over her, and she sank down onto one of the logs they had set up by the fire.

            “I—I don’t—it happened so fast, my lord,” Podrick answered. He glanced down at his sword, then wiped the blood off on his already soiled doublet. “We were just setting up camp like you asked, then these men came out of the trees with their swords out.”

            “They didn’t ask anything? Tell you who they were?”

            Podrick nodded. “They wanted you. You and the lady,” Podrick added quietly. “Said they were here for the Kingslayer and…and…”

            “And what?” Sansa asked, meeting Podrick’s eyes.

            “And his wolf slut.” Podrick’s voice was barely above a breath, and he looked sheepishly away from her. “They didn’t believe me when I said I had no idea what they were talking about. That’s when this happened,” he finished gesturing to the body by his feet. “Men hiding behind the trees picked one of our men off before I knew what was happening.”

            Jaime let out a crude lament, and Sansa looked over to see him raking a hand through his disheveled hair. His gaze was directed off in the distance towards the King’s Road. “I will kill whoever sent the order to do this,” Jaime growled. He bent down over the nearest body and ran his hand over the man’s doublet. “And of course they wear no sigils. Excellent.” Jaime stood, and the chill air seemed to grow still for a moment, before Jaime let out a cry of frustration and kicked at the corpse before pacing back and forth. Sansa flinched. Podrick looked startled.

            “Someone must have seen us on the road,” Podrick piped up. “Or…or heard the news from Winterfell.”

            Jaime rounded on Podrick. “Are you daft, boy? We didn’t pass a soul on the road. There was no one _at_ Winterfell but us, and it’s not like we went around around sharing the happy news. And how did you survive when the guards didn’t?”

            “Ser Brienne taught me well, my lord,” Podrick answered meekly, his shoulders curving in as he stepped back. “And I swear I had nothing to do with this.”

            “The inn,” Sansa said quietly. When Jaime just kept advancing on Podrick, Sansa pushed up onto her feet. “The inn,” she said again as their heads snapped towards her in surprise. “The innkeep saw your gold hand, I know she did, and my hair too. It wouldn’t be hard to put it together that we had wed when we shared a room.” Sansa wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to stop herself from shivering. “Besides, I…I noticed that the stable hand had disappeared some time during the night.”

            “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Jaime asked, this time rounding on her.

            “I didn’t think it relevant at the time.”

            “Relevant,” Jaime breathed out.

            “Forgive me, _Ser_ ,” Sansa began, spitting the word from her lips, “if I thought the nightmare of my life might actually be over for just one day. One.” Her eyes flicked down to Jaime’s clenched fist, then up to his hard eyes.

            “Next time you notice something suspicious, tell me. I apologize for not informing you of that sooner, my lady,” Jaime said curtly. “I didn’t think I had to.”

            “Do not speak to me like I’m a child.” Sansa snapped back, curling her quivering fingers into fists.

            “I wouldn’t have to if I wasn’t _dealing_ with one.”

            “That’s what I am to you, is it? A child you have to take care of but a wife get to fuck whenever you want?”

            “If there hasn’t been much fucking, doesn’t that make you more of a child than a wife?”           Jaime held her gaze for a moment longer, then tore his eyes away. Sansa felt her chest rising and falling rapidly, saw Podrick slink away from the corner of her eye. “Is that what you want, my lord? Would that please you?” she said, her voice soft and quivering. Sansa sank back onto the log, waiting for a response. But with the taut tension in the air gone, Jaime gave her no sharp answer. His features softened, and his fist unfurled.

            “Podrick, take the bodies away and downwind,” Jaime muttered. Podrick stood frozen for a second, then began to do as Jaime bid. Her husband walked past her to supposedly help him, but he soon stepped back over, and the heavy weight of her cloak fell around her shoulders. “You’re freezing,” Jaime said, looming in front of her.

            “I need my dress,” Sansa responded, not meeting his eyes. Jaime called for Podrick to stop what he was doing and retrieve her dress he left at the creek, and as Podrick’s footsteps went running off, Jaime sank down onto the log beside her. Sansa gripped the collar of her cloak and tightened it around her throat.

            “I should not have said those things,” Jaime murmured. Sansa could feel his searching gaze on her face, but she kept her eyes downcast to the leaves and soil beneath her bare feet. “It was cruel of me,” he added softly.

            Sansa breathed out a sigh. “I should have told you about the inn. I just…I didn’t think to at the time.” Her eyes lifted to one of the corpses. Blood dripped from the gash in his throat, speckling the soil below. “I was foolish to believe I was safe now,” Sansa said, before shuddering and tearing her eyes away.

            A hand found her knee, warm against the wet fabric of her shift. It was a gesture of comfort, and for once, Sansa found her body willing to accept the touch. “It won’t happen again,” Jaime said firmly. When Sansa shook her head and let out a huff of disbelief, his fingers found her cheek, and he forced her to look at him. His emerald eyes were sad. _Sad or terribly angry—there is no in between with this man, is there?_ she wondered. “I promise you, Sansa, that you will be safe with me. And from me. Please know that I expect nothing of you, even what I am supposed to expect as your husband.”

            Sansa leaned into his touch, into the warmth spreading from his fingertips. Her brows pulled together in confusion. “But you want me, don’t you?” she murmured back.      

            Jaime’s thumb brushed against her skin, at spot where the corner of her lips met her cheek. “It doesn’t matter,” he answered. “I can wait until you want to, Sansa.”

            Tyrion had said a similar thing on their wedding night all those years ago. That he would wait until she was ready to lie with him. In that other life, when she was another girl, Sansa had told Tyrion that she never wanted to. Now, in this new life with a different man, Sansa was not sure if her answer was the same. Perhaps Jaime guessed her response, or perhaps at the sound of Podrick approaching he did not want to hear it, and her husband gave her one last, solemn look before dropping his fingers and standing.

            As the grotesque sound of bodies dragging against the ground filled the air, Sansa ducked inside their tent and peeled her shift from her skin. When she was dressed and somewhat warm again, Sansa curled up on the straw mattress. She covered her ears, tried to block out the sound of the bodies and the soil and the blood she imagined oozing from their wounds and soaking into the ground. In her dreams that night, the sun-warmed water and soft grassy banks of the creek were stained red, and when Sansa whirled around searching for its source, a man’s naked body bobbed lazily in the water—Jaime. She swam towards it, but every time she lifted Jaime’s head, Ramsay’s face broke through the surface, a bloody grin stretching over his mouth as his eyes flew open to meet hers.

 

* * *

 

            He was sure she was still asleep, when the frightened whispers started. Her skin was slickened with sweat, and her eyes danced wildly beneath their lids. It was a nightmare, like the ones he often saw soldiers get during war, or the ones his sister often woke to in the early days of her marriage to the king. “No, please” Sansa breathed out, rolling over to face him, her arms clutched to her chest like a child curling into herself for comfort. “Not you. Please,” she whimpered, her scared words on his lips. Jaime hesitantly reached for her arm, wondering if he should wake her, but before he could do so, so, she rolled violently back over to the other side. Her body began to tremble as her whispers grew more incoherent and frantic, and before Jaime could tell himself it was a bad idea, he wrapped an arm over her and pulled her to his chest. “You’re okay,” Jaime breathed out against her hair as her body began to relax. Jaime’s eyes turned to the canopy of their tent, and he let out a long sigh. “You’re okay.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that argument...I'm really trying to for a more realistic, slow progression of their trust and eventual relationship, so I hope you guys are into this update. Thanks for reading :)


	10. Just in Case

            Sansa was still in his arms when Jaime woke at first light, her breathing even and all worry gone from her face. He watched her for some minutes, but soon he began to wonder if she might wake and become fearful at his touch, so he carefully peeled away from her. Jaime dressed, then stepped into the pale morning sun. Podrick was already tending to the fire, and their three horses had already been groomed and saddled. When Jaime drew closer, he saw a skinned rabbit hanging over the fire.

            “My lord,” Podrick said, looking up.

            “How long have you been up?” Jaime asked. He gave his own horse a pat, then lowered himself onto one of the logs beside the fire with a stiff groan.

            “Only an hour, ser. I wanted to tend to things before you or the lady woke up.” Podrick tore off one of the rabbit’s legs, then held it out to Jaime.

            “Well, you’re not the worst squire I’ve had,” Jaime said, before tearing into the slightly charred flesh. He glanced up to see a crestfallen expression on the boy’s face. “But you did well yesterday,” Jaime added. When Podrick smiled, Jaime fought the urge to roll his eyes.

            “Do you think more men will come after us?”

            Jaime nodded. “We’re going to need to be more careful. No more staying at inns if we can help it, and no more Kingsroad. We’ll take the same path Robb Stark did when he marched south, then follow the River Road into the Westerlands.”

            “Robb Stark died marching that way,” Podrick said, his eyes wide.

            “Because he made a foolish mistake at the Twins.”

            They both turned to look towards the tent. Sansa stood with her hair still messy from sleep and her arms crossed over her chest. “Pardon, my lady, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Podrick said hurriedly. He ripped off another leg of the rabbit and jumped to his feet. “Breakfast?”

            Sansa eyed the meat, then begrudgingly accepted it. She perched on the log opposite Jaime, but kept her eyes on the rabbit as she turned it over in her hands. “The Freys are gone from the Twins now, thanks to my sister. And Ser Jaime’s right—staying off the road for as long as possible is our best option.”

            “It’s going to be less comfortable for you, you know,” Jaime said pointedly. “And once we get further south, the swamps of the Neck will be far less forgiving than this place,” he said, glancing around at their clearing.

            Sansa looked up from her rabbit. “I am no stranger to discomfort, my lord,” she said tersely, before sinking her teeth into the leg.

             

            If Sansa began to regret her words, she gave no sign of it. After packing up and releasing the four extra horses, Jaime led their small party for a hard two weeks ride through the rolling, grassy hills of the Barrowlands. Without the coverage of the forest anymore, they were forced to make camp with what little shelter the barren land provided. Although Sansa protested, Jaime and Podrick took turns keeping watch during the nights. At least that way she was always sleeping when Jaime finally crawled into the tent, and there was no more awkwardness about sharing a bedroll.

            When the pale, ghostly grass of the Barrowlands began to fade into the marshes of the Neck around Moat Cailin, their journey began to grow frustratingly slow. No longer could they canter across the wide stretches of countryside, and they were forced to pick carefully around the crooked trees of the swamps and tread delicately through the wet ground. They were only half a day’s ride from Greywater Watch when Sansa’s horse let out a shrill whinny and its hoof sunk into a patch of bubbling mud. After Podrick and Jaime finally managed to pull the mare free, the poor beast walked with a limp, and Jaime ran a hand down its leg to feel the heat of a broken tendon. When Jaime told her the news, a rare flicker of sadness crossed her face.

            “You can have my horse,” Podrick said, holding out the reins. “I’m only the squire, after all, and I don’t mind walking.”

            She shook her head. “That’s kind, Podrick, but if you walk through these swamps the same could happen to you.”

            “You’ll ride with me, then,” Jaime said, and Sansa drew her solemn eyes back towards him. When she pressed her lips together and made no move towards him, Jaime added, “only until we can find another horse.”

            “As you say,” Sansa answered. Jaime lifted her up onto his horse, then climbed up after her. He felt her stiffen against his chest as he settled into the saddle and grasped the reins.

            “We’ll take the mare up to the road, then continue on back through the marshes,” Jaime said, his arm pressing against Sansa as he spun his horse around. _If the damned Gods exist, let’s hope they’ll bless us with a fresh horse soon_ , he thought bitterly. _There’s nothing like being forced into one saddle for days on end to make you despise the other person’s touch._ And Sansa did not need any more reasons for that.

 

* * *

 

            For the first day of riding in front of Jaime, Sansa had fretted for hours about how she was sitting, how she smelled, how she jostled against his chest when the horse took an uneven step. She could tell Jaime was uneasy too, as he said almost nothing during the ride until he grunted that they should make camp when they came to a relatively dry patch of the marsh. It was just so bloody tiring—not just the endless riding and the stiff straw bedroll and the stench of sweat that clung to them all. Keeping her guard up against her Lannister husband took every extra bit of willpower she had. And so, as they set out that morning for another day of riding, Sansa decided to let herself relax against her husband’s chest. A nagging voice in the back of her head wondered what her mother might think, but Sansa realized that she hardly cared. She was far, far too tired for that.

            They were just coming up on Greywater Watch when Sansa decided to let her head rest back against Jaime’s chest. He gave a little huff of surprise, and when she looked up, she found him glancing down at her. Jaime looked different from below; his jaw looked sharper, and his nose was crooked in the center. She couldn’t help it—a tiny giggle escaped her lips.

            “Are you laughing at me, my lady?” Jaime asked, smirking as his eyes lifted back up.

            “Not at all, my lord” she said courteously. “I was only thinking that you looked quite handsome from this angle.”

            “And not from others?”

            “Nope,” she jested, and his eyes flicked down to her, jestingly wide with hurt.

            “I’ve never been mocked for my looks before,” Jaime scoffed.

            “Oh? Do most ladies swoon and simper when they see you?”

            “They used to.”

            “Used to?”

            “I was considered quite handsome when I was younger.”

            “You’re still quite handsome when you’re older.”

            He chuckled, and his laughter rumbled pleasantly against her back. “Not many men get such lovely compliments from pretty girls.”

            Sansa found herself smiling—they were flirting, that’s what it was. She was flirting with the Lannister she was forced to call her husband, and for the first time, she felt only a trace of guilt twisting in her belly. “How did you break your nose?” Sansa asked, after they rode quietly for a few minutes.

            “Wrestling with my dear sibling when I was a boy,” Jaime said. “I was thrown quite unceremoniously into a rather large rock.”

            “ _Tyrion_ did that?” Jaime was silent for a moment, and Sansa was just about to turn around to see what was wrong when a large, wooden structure began to peek through the scraggily trees. “Look, Greywater Watch,” Sansa said, her voice dropping into whisper. As they drew closer, the strangeness of the castle began to take form, though it was still hard to make out through the forest. “Howland Reed was my father’s friend,” Sansa mused as Jaime too cast his gaze on the eerie castle. “We could rest there for the evening and perhaps get a fresh horse.”

            “Forgive me, my lady, but no friend of your father is a friend of mine,” Jaime answered in a similarly hushed voice. “I reckon the men that attacked us were Northmen, and until we leave the North, I won’t have us in their homes.” Jaime urged the horse on faster, and soon the entire castle became hidden in the grey fog of the swamp.  

 

            Sansa felt a wave of dread wash over her when Jaime pulled to a stop in front of the Twins. The castle loomed above her, dark and ugly. When the wind picked up, its whistle through the tower sounded like a scream. One half of a bloody Frey banner rippled from its high post overhanging the open gate, and if Sansa could climb, she would have jumped right from the horse, scaled the stone wall, and thrown the blasted thing into the river.

            “It’s deserted, my lord,” Podrick called out as he trotted back towards them. “Both parts of the castle.” Sansa glanced up and saw Jaime nod curtly. His mouth was set into a grimace, and his arm around her was unusually tense. It pressed against Sansa’s waist, and surprisingly, Sansa found the pressure comforting.

            “We’ll ride through, then,” Jaime responded as Podrick halted before them.

            Sansa looked up at the sky—it was near sundown, though she could hardly tell from the thick clouds hanging low and threatening in the swath of grey. “Shouldn’t we stay here for the night?” she asked. “For once we can have a roof over us during a storm.”

            “You’d want to stay here?” Jaime asked, his voice filled with doubt.

            She knew his implications— _you want to stay here, where your mother and brother were butchered?_ Podrick was staring at her, his face uncertain, and she could feel Jaime’s similar gaze burning into the back of her head. “I do not fear ghosts,” Sansa answered, holding her chin high. “They Freys lost their chance to hurt me again when my sister took their lives.”

 

            Jaime led her by the hand to one of the guest bedrooms, or maybe it had belonged to one of Walder Frey’s sons or daughters—it did not matter to her, so long as she did not stay in the lord’s chambers. Podrick followed them up, and after he had lit a fire in the cold hearth and joined them in finishing some bread and salted meat, the boy left for one of the rooms down the hall. When the door closed, Sansa sat down on the soft mattress and breathed out a sigh of relief.

            “Better than the hard ground?” Jaime asked as he laid his sword on the dresser.

            “Much,” she agreed. “I cannot wait until we can finally start staying in castles again. Ones that aren’t so full of ghosts,” she added.

            Jaime turned back towards her as he shrugged off his riding coat. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”

            “I do, I just don’t believe they can harm me.”

            He huffed in agreement, then sat in one of the leather armchairs by the fire. Jaime reached for his boots, tugging off one, then the other. With all of his outdoor garments discarded, Jaime seemed unsure of what to do as he sat there, his gaze pointed halfway to the bed, halfway to the hearth. When they camped on the road, Jaime would always come in while Sansa pretended to be asleep so she needn’t bother him with the awkward moments before they both fell asleep. But now, in the warm safety of the abandoned castle, they might as well be back at Winterfell sharing a bed for the first time.

            “Get some sleep,” Jaime said suddenly, glancing sideways towards her.

            “And what are you going to do, keep watch again? We’re safe here, Jaime, for at least one night. If anyone really needs to get some sleep, it’s you.”

            A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and Jaime strode back towards the opposite side of the bed. “Will you be keeping watch” he asked, throwing back his corner of the blanket. Sansa did the same and slipped in beneath the sheets.

            “If you give me a dagger.”

            He laughed as he climbed in beside her. “I should never have taught you how to use a blade,” he said, folding an arm beneath his head and closing her eyes. “You’ll stab me in my sleep, won’t you, little wolf?”

            Sansa blushed at the pet name. “Not anymore,” she said quietly after a few moments. But when she rolled onto her side to wait for his response, his chest was already moving with the easy motion of sleep.

 

* * *

 

            “Sansa—Sansa!” Jaime whispered. He was above her, holding her thrashing arms to her side as her legs kicked at his ankles. When Sansa’s body began to still and her eyes blinked open, he let go of one of her arms and brushed away the hair sticking to her slick forehead.

            “Is something wrong?” she asked, her gaze shooting wildly around. When she made a move to sit up, Jaime released her and shifted back onto his side of the bed.

            “No,” he said hoarsely, before clearing his throat. “We’ve been asleep for a few hours, but I woke when I heard you.”

            “Heard me what?”

            Jaime pressed his lips together, and he cast his gaze to the red coals of their dying hearth. “It was another nightmare.”

            “Another?”

            “I…I heard you after the night those men attacked our camp,” Jaime answered, looking back at her.

            Sansa drew her knees to her chest, and the blanket slipped down to reveal her pale legs sticking out from the thin skirt of her shift. “I did not mean to bother you with my silly dreams, my lord,” she answered, her eyes on her feet.

            “Bother me? Why in seven hells would it bother me?”

            She was silent for a moment, before her lips cracked open and she said softly, “Because it gives you more reasons to think of me in that way. As a child you are burdened to take care of.”

            He almost rolled his eyes at that, but stopped himself before he could. Gods, how he regretted saying that when they argued that day in the woods. “Do you really believe that?” he asked her. Sansa pressed her cheek against her knees and stared off in the opposite direction. “Look at me,” Jaime said sternly. “ _Look_ at me.”

            “No,” Sansa answered, lifting her head to stare at him. In the darkness, her eyes almost looked like ice, dark and dangerous. “No,” she said again, her voice softer. “But I do think that there are a thousand other things you’d rather be doing than sitting here, listening to me whimper from a bad dream.”

            Jaime’s brows pulled together, and he reached for her hand. She did not flinch away, so Jaime drew it back towards himself, holding it in his lap. “These aren’t just dreams, Sansa. They’re nightmares.” He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, smoothing her cold skin until warmth bloomed beneath his touch. “Tell me about this one.”

            She met his eyes, as if looking to find his falseness, before she gave a tiny nod. “It’s this awful castle. I thought I would be fine, but…but I heard what happened here. Joffrey made sure of that,” she murmured, her eyes on their joined hands. “In my dream—in my nightmare—my brother walks towards me with Grey Wind’s head sewn to his body. I—I approach him, over and over again, and I pull it off. But it’s not Robb I see under the mask. It’s my mother with her throat cut into a red smile. That’s when they start to laugh.”

            “Who?”

            Sansa took a shaky breath. “Everyone. Everyone from court. Joffrey, Littlefinger, Ilyn Payne…your sister.”

            “Am I there?” At that, her eyes became fearful, and her mouth twisted into a frown. “It’s all right if I am,” Jaime said gently. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.

            “You’re not,” Sansa answered when he lowered their hands back down. “I think…I think I’m waiting for you, though. Waiting for you to rescue me. But they don’t stop laughing, and you don’t come. And every time I run away, it begins all over again.” Sansa’s fingers tightened, squeezing his own. “I need you, Jaime,” she breathed out, almost like the words themselves made her afraid.

            Jaime squeezed back. “In the dream?”

            “In real life too.” Sansa’s eyes dropped to his lips, and without another moment of hesitation or hushed conversation, Jaime dropped her hand and put his own around her hips, drawing her closer until she was sitting on the tops of his thighs as he leaned back against the headboard. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then his hand found her neck, cupping it firmly, pulling her towards him. When their mouths met, a small gasp escaped her lips, but she was the one who deepened it, her hands sliding up his chest, her tongue slipping into his mouth. Jaime kept his good hand wrapped tightly around her, pulling her as flush against him as was possible. Gods, she felt so _good_ pressed up against him, her body small and supple against his own. Her hands moved further to cup his jaw, and as her breaths became faster and lighter, Jaime groaned into her mouth. He let go of her waist, and his fingers found the bunched hem of her shift, and they slid up her bent knee to the soft skin of her thigh.

            She broke away, though her fingers stayed secure around his jaw. “I…I’m sorry but I’m not—”

            “It’s all right,” Jaime whispered, his hand sliding back to rest on her knee. He smiled at her, though her own swollen, beautiful mouth was creased with worry. Jaime let go of her leg, and he smoothed a thumb over the creases framing her lips before his hand settled on her cheek. They held each other like that for a moment as both their breaths evened back out. “And it will always be all right,” he said, before giving her one last, chaste kiss. Sansa untangled herself from him, and when she laid back down and he did the same, they faced each other.

            “Will you hold me?” she asked softly. “Just in case the nightmare comes back.”

            Jaime nodded, and as she turned over, he pulled her into his chest. “Of course,” he murmured, his arm snaking around her waist and his breath on her hair. “Just in case.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another kiss! I know I'm covering a lot of physical ground in their journey together, but I'm trying to keep this around 15 chapters. And I promise we'll have more than a few kisses by the end...  
> Thanks for reading, and I'd love to hear your comments! :)


	11. Oldstones

            It was as if they had been a locked chest with no key, her and Jaime. Since their wedding, she had been suspicious of him, and he had been uncertain of her. But that night in the Twins had apparently cracked their marriage wide open, and no longer did Sansa feel herself stiffening at his touch or avoiding his conversation. She rested easily against his chest as they rode south, listened to him tell stories of tourneys and battles with bandits, smiled when he asked her of growing up with Arya, Bran, Robb, and little Rickon. Sansa wasn’t sure if she trusted him fully, nor if she ever would, but in their friendship she felt happier than she had in a long while, happier than she thought she’d ever be again.

            On the third morning after riding out from the Twins, the thick forest finally gave way to countryside, and Sansa let out a breath of relief at the prospect of being able to ride at a pace faster than a walk again. Fingers of a river stretched on either side of the path they followed, and when Sansa turned her head left and right, she saw what appeared to be the remains of a village dotting the countryside. There didn’t seem to be any common people though, and when Sansa squinted, the little wooden building appeared blackened and charred, with vines and scraggily grasses creeping over their sides.

            “Hag’s Mire, my lady,” Podrick said, riding up to her and Jaime’s horse. “The village is— _was_ —sworn to House Frey.”

            “What happened here?” Sansa asked, still eyeing the burned buildings nervously. She tugged up the hood of her cloak—even with the place abandoned, goosepimples prickled her arms as if they were being watched.

            “We did,” Jaime said gruffly from behind her. “My father’s men to be more specific. He ordered the Riverlands burned during the war.”

            Sansa frowned. “But that was a few years ago. Wouldn’t they come back and rebuild as we did at Winterfell?”

            “With what coin?” Jaime asked. He moved the reins to the right, urging their horse around a burned wagon wheel sticking out from the dirt. “The Freys controlled these lands. They’re gone now, and apparently the folk who lived here went too.”

            Sansa nodded and fell silent as they picked through the abandoned village. As much as she trusted Jaime’s assessment of what had happened here, something felt off about this burned place. Her gaze kept drifting through the ruined inns and homes and shops, searching for something in the wreckage. Hope, maybe. Hope that the wars were truly over. And as the creeks on either side of their path began to widen and the village gave way to the sloping hillside, Sansa almost believed her eyes when they found a child running barefoot through the ruins.

 

 

            An hour later, a hill began to rise out of the horizon line, and through the morning fog, a dark shape peeked through. As they neared closer, the clomp of the horses’ hoofs began to slow into a plodding rhythm until they did nothing could be heard at all. An old, stone road wound its way up the grassy hill, and at the top, a ruined castle loomed above them all.  

            “Oldstones,” Podrick said somberly.

            “Like the song,” Sansa said. “Jenny of Oldstones. I always adored that song. Sometimes mother and I would even sing it during feasts when I was a girl.” When Sansa glanced back at Jaime, she saw that his eyes were trained cautiously on the castle in the mist. “Can we look around?” she asked as his eyes drifted back to her. “Please? We’ve been riding for hours, Jaime. The horses need a break, and so does poor Podrick. Right, Podrick?” she asked, meeting his eyes pointedly.

            “Well, um, yes, my lady. I wouldn’t mind a break.”

            Jaime chuckled, then let out an exasperated sigh. “As the lady commands,” he teased. They rode further up the winding road, making sure to keep their horses slow on the uneven stones. “Stay with the horses and let them graze,” Jaime told Podrick after he and Sansa dismounted. As Podrick led the horses over to a patch of lush grass, Sansa unclasped her cloak and set it aside on a piece of crumbling stone.

            “Preparing to hunt for ghosts?” Jaime asked. As Sansa turned back towards the castle, she felt him step up beside her, and Sansa turned to smile up at him.

            “Hunt poor Jenny of Oldstones?” Sansa said. “If I did find her, I’d just want to talk. I imagine we have quite a lot in common, her and I.”

            Jaime chuckled, then reached into his belt and pulled out a dagger. “Just in case,” said, handing it to her.

            Sansa laughed, then looked down at herself. “And where am I supposed to keep this?”

            Jaime stepped in front of her, then gently took the blade from her hand. With the dagger between his thumb and forefinger, his hand dropped down to the front of her bodice. “Jaime!” she whispered, blushing furiously when he pulled the fabric slightly away from her breasts.

            “This is where all the highborn ladies like to put their daggers,” Jaime murmured as he tucked the blade inside. Sansa shivered when the steel slid against her skin, and she willed the heat to leave her face.

            “Where they like to put them, or where _you_ like to put them?” she said, hoping she sounded coy rather than just silly. Without waiting for his response, she picked up her skirts and began making her way towards the ruined castle with Jaime close behind, smiling to herself the whole way.

            The outer walls of the castle had crumbled almost completely, and the stones and structures left had worn smooth from rain and grown slippery with moss. They tried one of the offshoot corridors first, but when that gave way to a collapsed staircase blocking their path, they retraced their steps and went through a wooden door. What had been a great hall once welcomed them, though with its cold hearths and dust where tables and chairs had once been, the place spooked, and she dared not speak too loud or hear her own voice call back. _There are ghosts here_ , Sansa mused as she ran a hand over the rough stone of one of the walls. _I can almost hear them whispering_. Sansa looked up and saw a ragged hole that tore through part of the ceiling and an entire window. Beyond, she saw trees, pale white with crimson leaves. A breeze picked up, rustling the leaves and sending a wash of cool air trickling through.

            “A godswood,” Sansa breathed out. She turned and caught Jaime’s eye.

            “Let’s find a way out there,” he said, taking her hand. As he held her back from the hall, Sansa smiled at his fingers, firm and warm and safe around her own.

 

* * *

 

            They spent nearly twenty minutes trying to find the way into the godswood, and after Jaime led Sansa this way and that through the ruins, he finally gave up and lifted her through the empty window. It was only an iron frame now, and with no broken glass to worry about, he got her through easily. To get himself through was more of a challenge, and after a few trials of trying to hoist himself up onto the ledge, Jaime was forced to drag over a large chunk of stone to stand on. Sansa, to her credit, managed to keep a straight face throughout the ordeal, though her mouth was clamped over her grin the entire time.

            Once Sansa had shook out her skirts and smoothed back her braid, she began to wander around the courtyard. Perhaps once it was a beautiful place, like the gardens of King’s Landing, but now only the weirwoods grew from the damp bed of moss. Their branches curved and bent up towards the roofs of the surrounding castle, thick and wide enough that when children once lived here, they must have been climbed to the top every day. Jaime kept back by the window and simply watched her move, watched her fingers brush against the white bark and her eyes grow sad when they fell upon the tree’s carved face. Sansa dragged her fingers down the trunk as she sank to her knees, then pressed her palm flat against the bark.

            “Do you keep Gods, Jaime?” he heard her ask, her voice barely catching in the wind. Sansa lifted her head to look at him, tendrils of hair catching on her face. She was crying, and when Jaime stepped up beside her, he saw that the tree was crying too. Not salt like wife, but blood-red sap.

            Jaime swallowed, and after a moment, he lowered himself to his knees beside her. He kept his hand beside his side though—he had no right to touch this strange tree. “I was raised in the light of the Seven,” Jaime answered quietly. “But no. Not so much anymore.”

            “I always favored my mother’s gods,” Sansa whispered. Her hand ran down the tree until it reached the moss, then she drew it back into herself. “The Seven were so easy to believe in when I was a girl. Faces with names, figures I recognized from the storybooks my septa read to me. When…when they imprisoned my father, I turned to the Seven. When they killed him, I turned to the Seven. When they killed my mother and brother, I turned to the Seven, and still I heard no answer.”  

            “The Gods never answer,” Jaime said, still watching her carefully. Her tears had stopped, and the sap had turned dark red and hard.

            “That’s true,” Sansa answered. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and a small smile emerged between her tear-streaked cheeks. “But the Old Gods listen. They listened to me, Jaime, the morning of our wedding. After I chose you, I went to the godswood. I prayed that there would be some peace after all this horror.” Sansa reached for his hand, and Jaime reached for her face, brushing back the wet strands before holding her in his palm. “I’m finding my peace, Jaime. With you.” Sansa leaned in as Jaime drew her towards him, and when their lips met, it was salty and wet and soft. The kiss lasted only a moment—her fingers intertwined with his own, her mouth sure on his, her hand pressing into his knee for support—but Jaime knew it meant more than any of the others before it. Beneath the weeping weirwood, between the crumbling stones and the whisper of ghosts and the wind, he kissed his winter bride.

            “I am finding my peace too,” Jaime murmured as their lips parted and she gazed up at him through her wet lashes. “I was not sure about your choice at first, but Sansa, I—”

           

* * *

 

            A man’s scream rippled through the courtyard, and the color drained from Jaime’s face. Jaime grabbed her elbow and jerked her to her feet, then pushed her behind himself.

 _They came back_ , Sansa thought as she gripped tightly to Jaime’s arm. _They came back to kill us._ But no—that couldn’t be, could it? They were hundreds of miles from the Cerwyn lands. It was impossible. Another screamed sounded from outside the walls, then a shriek of a horse. _Is it so impossible?_ Before Sansa even realized what he was doing, Jaime was leading her towards the sound. Now, with both their ears pressed against the stone wall of the courtyard, the voices outside were clearer.

            “You four, circle round back—make sure there’s no way to get out.”

            “What about the boy?”

            “What about the boy! He’ll be dead in the hour. Besides, he ain’t no threat when he’s bleedin’ like a pig on the ground.”

            “You think the Kingslayer’s really in there?”

            “If my boy said he saw a golden handed rider, then that’s the Lannister cunt.”

            “What about his bride?”

            “Only two horses, but if she’s there, we’ll take the wolf girl and have ourselves some fun. Think the bitch likes taking it like a bitch?”

            Laughter rumbled through the men, and Sansa stumbled back away from the wall. “Jaime,” she whispered, clutching to his arm. “Podrick’s hurt, he’s out there, and…” Sansa turned, began to run for the window, but Jaime caught her wrist and forced her to turn back towards him.

            “I heard seven, maybe eight men out there,” Jaime hissed. Sansa tried to pull herself free, but Jaime’s grip tightened, and he shook her until her arm became limp in his hand. “You can’t save him!” he said in a harsh whisper.

            “But you can.”

            Jaime ran his tongue over his teeth, then his eyes dropped to his hand on her wrist. He let go, and Sansa drew it back to herself, rubbing the skin his fingers had bruised. “My priority is to save _you_ , Sansa. And those men, whoever they are, they don’t know you’re here yet.” Jaime stepped towards her, and before Sansa could take more than a few steps back, he took her jaw in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You listen to me, okay? I want you to climb one of the weirwoods all the way to the top. When you’re in sight of the roof, step onto it. Stay low, and when you find a patch of vines that leads back towards the outer grounds, you climb, then you run.” Sansa tried to shake her head, but he held her fast. She began to reach for his chest to push him away, but his violent emerald eyes kept her still, and their anger scared her into staying put more than his grip ever could. “You run, you get one of the horses if you can, and you _keep running_ all the way to Riverrun.”

            “But what about you?” Sansa whispered.

            “I’ll catch up.”

            “No, no, no you won’t, they’re going to kill—”

            The sound of the men’s voices began again, and Sansa felt the words catch in her throat.

            “In here!”

            “C’mon, he has to be this way!”

            Jaime’s finger slipped away, and he pressed one, gentle kiss against her forehead. “Go,” he whispered against her skin. Sansa did not move, could not move, until he gave her shoulder a hard shove and began running towards the window with his sword drawn. As he pressed his back up against the wall, their eyes met once last time. “ _Go_ ,” he mouthed.

            So she did. Sansa took off towards the weirwoods, spinning around with her neck craned until she found a thick branch leading right onto the roof. She pulled herself up and began to climb, climb, climb into the canopy. When her boot hit the crumbling roof she heard the men spill into the courtyard, yelling her husband’s false name, heard the first clash of steel, then the first scream, but she did not look down to see whose throat it came from.

            Sansa took off running when her feet fell back onto solid ground, her vision blurring as the wind whipped at her hair, yanking it free from its braid. She was crying by the time she found the horses, sobbing when she realized one laid in a pool of blood with two men’s bodies beside it. She could hardly breathe as she clambered onto Jaime’s horse, and when fingers wrapped around her ankle, she reached into her bodice, found the smooth metal, and slashed at the hand with her dagger. The man shrieked, and Sansa kicked the horse into a gallop before he could grab for her again.

            The screams of men followed her as she raced away from Oldstones, but the wind soon turned them into the screams of ghosts.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's on the shorter side, but after setting up all this plot stuff I promise the next chapter will be longer! Let me know your thoughts and thanks for reading! :)


	12. Who to Trust?

            Sansa didn’t make it far before the rain set in. They were still riding at a hard gallop through the hillside when the ground shuddered and the sky split brilliantly open and the horse shrieked. Still, she did not slow. _Run to Riverrun_ , Jaime had said. Her mind wanted to spin the horse around and go back to Oldstones, her calves wanted to urge them onward into the storm ahead. In the end, it was her body that won out, and even when her fingers began to prune and her dress soaked through to the bone, she kept riding south.

            _Just one more hour_ , Sansa told herself as the sun began to disappear behind the angry, grey clouds. When there was no more light but the weak trickle of the moon, she finally slowed the poor horse to a trot. As soon as she gave the gelding more rein, he took it as an opportunity to walk, and no matter how hard she squeezed and kicked, he would not move any faster.

            “Fine!” Sansa muttered, kicking her feet from the stirrups and gave the horse his head. She eyed the tree cover up ahead—if the horse refused to run any longer, she would have to make camp for the night. The prospect daunted her, as she was without a bedroll or tent. As Sansa guided the horse towards the trees, she bent over and flipped open the saddlebag. She had to squint in the near darkness, but her fingers soon closed around a chunk of salted meat and skin of water Jaime had put away for later. At least she would not go hungry or thirsty.

            Her legs trembled as she lowered herself to the ground, and when she tried to tie up the horse for the night, her flingers kept slipping from rain and exhaustion. “Seven hells,” Sansa lamented. She pushed her soaked hair away from her forehead and gave the horse a weary look. “Will you run if I don’t tie you?”

            The horse snorted and bent down to graze.

            Sansa rolled her eyes, flung the reins up onto a high branch, then stuck her hands on her hips. That would have to do—and besides, she had not seen anyone around all day. After picking her way through the forest for a bit, she found a relatively dry patch of leaves beneath an old, moss-covered tree, and she made a makeshift bedroll with the saddlebag for a pillow, the horse’s saddle pad for a mattress, and only her woolen skirts to keep her covered.

            She laid down, wrapped her arms around herself, and cast her gaze up into the canopy. Heavy, brown leaves danced in the wind leftover from the storm, and through them moonlight and starlight filtered through, almost too-bright without the heavy clouds. Sansa licked her chapped lips, then let them part slowly.

            “ _Jaime_ ,” she whispered to the trees.

            The wind picked up, rustling the leaves, sending the forest humming gently in reply. A fat drop of rainwater splattered against her cheek. It was enough to break the spell that bound her ever since escaping Oldstones, and a sob tore through her chest and bubbled up through her throat. Sansa listened to her anguish rip through the quiet of the forest like an echo. It only made her sob harder. She wanted Jaime. She did, she truly did. She wanted his arms wrapped too tightly around her, wanted his chest warm and rumbling against her back. She wanted the tickle of his beard on her cheek and the press of his lips on her own, shushing her, telling her it would be all right. That the sun would shine in the morning, that she wouldn’t lay shivering on the forest floor all night. That she was safe with him, and wanted, and loved.

            _Love._

            She wanted him to love her.

            She wanted herself to love him.

            _Does he?_

_Do I?_

The trees gave no answer—they did not hold the spirits of her Old Gods, and they would not listen to her cry. They did not stop her either, and as the last wisps of clouds drifted away, and the air turned cold and clear, and the forest came alive all around her, Sansa let her tears carry her off to sleep.

 

            A twig snapped, and Sansa sat upright, breathing hard. As her eyes adjusted to the morning sunshine, she couldn’t help but smile at the light. _Today will be better_. At least it would be warmer.

            Sansa groaned as she pushed herself to her feet and packed up her meager bedding. After tucking it under her elbow, Sansa yawned and picked a leaf from her hair, but when she turned around, her body went stiff.

            Three figures stood around her horse—an older grey-haired man, a pox-marked woman, and a rakish girl of Sansa’s age. Peasants, by the look of their clothes. The man had her horse’s reins in his hands as the women watched, their backs to Sansa.

            Sansa willed her hand to be steady as she reached into her bodice and drew out her dagger, but the movement caused her weight to shift, and the ground beneath her feet cracked. The family whipped around, and Sansa stared at back at them, her dagger brandished, her jaw set hard. The bedroll fell to the ground.

            “Step away from the horse,” Sansa mustered out. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin. The man glanced at his wife.

            “The horse was on his own,” the man grunted, tugging the reins to his chest.

            “I was sleeping not ten feet away,” Sansa said curtly. She took a step forward.

            This time it was the woman’s turn, and her eyes raked up and down Sansa’s body. “And what’s a highborn girl like you doing in the Whispering Wood by herself?” the woman sneered.

            Of course she knew Sansa was highborn—maybe not which house she came from, but even her riding clothes were finer than any smallfolk would own. “I’m riding south from Fairmarket to meet my husband,” Sansa answered stiffly. “My companions and I got separated in the storm.”

            “That so?” the man said. “South _where_?”

            Sansa hesitated before answering. “Riverrun.”

            “Who’s yer husband?”

            “Edmure Tully, Lord of the Riverlands. My name is Roslin Tully, and if my husband finds out you hindered my safe return home, he will be most displeased with you and your family.” Sansa watched their faces carefully, hoping she had lied correctly. As far as she knew, it was safer to be a Tully in these parts than a Stark or Lannister, and it was unlikely that these smallfolk even knew that Roslin  Tully’s hair wasn’t red.  

            The husband’s mouth twisted, and for a moment Sansa feared that he recognized her lie—or even worse, who she really was—but then a smile cracked through, and he chuckled heartily. Sansa breathed out a sigh of relief and smiled in return.

            “Sorry for the confusion, milady,” he said, crossing over and handing her the reins. “Can’t be too sure who to trust nowadays. Not when we’ve got damn Targaryeans back in the Seven fucking Kingdoms.”

            “Or who to steal horses from, it would seem.”

            The man laughed at that, then offered to help Sansa ready the horse. Although she hated to spend even longer with these people, she felt it rude to decline, so she gave him her courteous acceptance. The husband snapped at his daughter to fetch the saddle pad and bag, then when the horse was readied, he lifted her onto its back.

            “When you get back to yer husband, tell him Robin the Cook of Castle Lychester sent you safely home.”

            Sansa dipped her head. “Of course. My husband will be most pleased.”

            The man grinned, showing her his crooked, yellow teeth. “And one more thing,” he added, to which Sansa raised a brow. “Tell him we smallfolk are still keeping a lookout for the Kingslayer like he asked.”

            Sansa felt the blood rush away from her cheeks, and her fingers curled so tightly around the reins that her knuckles grew pale. “The Kingslayer?”

            “’Suppose your husband didn’t tell you? There’s a reward for the Lannister bastard. Him and his little wolf slut, though don’t be using those words around Lord Tully. The bitch is still his niece, after all, even if she’s warming the Kingslayer’s bed.”

            “Th—thank you, good man, for helping me,” Sansa said, trying to keep the fear from her voice.  “I will be sure to let my husband know.” With a curt nod to the man and his family, she turned her horse south. When she was sure the peasants were out of sight, she broke into a canter.

            _Uncle Edmure wants Jaime dead_. The thought shuddered through her as she darted through the trees. _And I have nowhere to go but towards him._

            Sansa kept out of the woods after that, riding instead through the grassy fields beside it. Here, she could let the horse stretch into a gallop when it was flat enough, and she could see the curve of the Red Fork bending around the horizon by sundown. A few minutes later, the high walls of Riverrun jutted up into the violet sky, the stones bathed in the warm light of the western sun. Sansa expected to see scouts posted on the northern road to the castle, but when no one stopped her, doubt began to set in. The smallfolk seemed to think Edmure was here, but this was no Riverrun she remembered from her childhood. Where were the men in their scaled armor? Where were the washerwomen collecting the last of the linens before supper? Where were the last food carts of the day rolling to and from the castle?

            Her horse’s hooves clopped heavily against the wooden bridge until she tugged the reins and dismounted, and finally she laid eyes on another person, a guard atop the barracks. Sansa’s eyes drifted from the gate to the man, and she raised a hand to her brow to block the sun.

            “Who goes there?” he shouted.

            “Sansa, niece of Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun.” She kept her last names out, both of them. If Robin the Cook’s words were true, then she dared not speak either of those names quite yet.

            The guard seemed to stare at her for a while before disappearing back inside the walls. Sansa ran her fingers over her horse’s neck as she waited and watched the river sparkle beneath the orange light of sundown.

            “We’ll take your horse to the stables, my lady.”

            Sansa looked up to see the same guard and a straw-haired stable boy walking through the now-open gates, and she gratefully handed over the reins. “Is my uncle here?”

            “Yes, my lady,” the guard answered, falling into step beside her as they passed under the stone archway. The boy led the horse off one way while the guard led her into the central courtyard. There were a few people milling about—women with baskets or babes on their hips, men with swords and scaly breastplates—but fare fewer than they ever kept at Winterfell, even after the war.

            “I’d like to see him,” Sansa said as her eyes drifted to a kitchen wench with wide, brown eyes. The girl leapt off the barrel she was sitting on and went running towards a door. “Tonight.”

            The man said nothing, and when Sansa peeked at his face, his mouth was set in a hard line. They stepped up to the great wooden doors opposite the front gate, and after her escort nodded to the men standing watch, they pulled the doors open. Before them, a short entrance with a thin, blue rug led to the great hall. She could see a man that looked like her uncle facing a hearth, but his back was to her. Beside him stood a slender, dark-haired woman, her hand on his shoulder. _Lady Roslin_ , Sansa guessed.

            “Uncle!” Sansa called out. Edmure and Roslin whipped around. She could now see how pretty the Frey girl was, and how young too. _No wonder the smallfolk didn’t doubt me, my good aunt is hardly older than I_. Sansa began to step into the hall, but the guard’s hand clamped around her upper arm, jolting her backwards. “Let go of me,” Sansa said, struggling against his hold.

            Edmure’s eyes ran her up and down, then the lines of his jaw deepened into an angry, twisted kind of frown. The woman beside him pursed her lips, and her gaze fell over Sansa, her face solemn and her brows worried. “Take Lady Lannister to her chambers,” Edmure said stiffly, his eyes flitting back to the hearth. “See that the door is locked, and keep a man posted outside her door.”

            _What?_ Confusion at her uncle’s words clouded her head, and before Sansa could think of a response, the guard was already dragging her off down the hall. She thought she heard Roslin arguing with Edmure, but Sansa could not make it out, and soon the stone walls muffled their voices into a thick silence. Sansa let the guard lead her, knowing it was futile to fight back when she didn’t know fully what was going on, but when they made their way down a narrow servant’s staircase, her feet began to slow.

            “Where are you taking me?”

            “To your chambers,” the man muttered.

            The came to a landing, then a dim corridor lined with sparse torches, wooden doors, and a few benches. There were no rugs or tapestries to lessen the chill, and goosepimples dotted her arms. The guard led her down several of the doors before stopping at one. Her eyes fell to the padlock on the iron doorknob, then drifted up to the small grate at eye-level. “These aren’t a lady’s rooms,” Sansa said lamely as the guard produced a key.

            “No, my…my lady,” he responded, almost regretfully. But when he finally opened the door with an strangled _creak_ , he pushed her inside the threshold all the same.

            Her face fell when she took it in—a straw mattress, a thin blanket, two torches, and a chamber pot. The room was even smaller than the one she stayed at in the Eyrie. Sansa turned back around, ready to reprimand this guard who clearly didn’t know who she was, but the door slammed closed in her face.

            “Supper will be brought to you soon,” the guard said through the grate, before disappearing down the hall to sit on a nearby bench. Sansa banged her fist against the wood, calling for the guard, demanding to be let out, but he acted as though he couldn’t hear. When her hands began to ache and legs felt like they were about give out, she turned slowly back around to face her new chambers. She slid down to the floor, her back pressed against the door and her knees drawn to her chest.

            “ _Jaime_ ,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against her bent knees, squeezing her eyes shut to the tears. She repeated his name once, twice, a dozen times, but she knew he could hear her no better than in the godless forest of the night before.

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sansa :( I hope you enjoyed anyway, and I promise things will be less sad eventually!


	13. Roslin

            They did send her supper—a thick stew, a cup of water, and block of hearty bread. Sansa gulped down the water as soon as the door closed behind the guard, but she pushed away the food. Although her stomach gnawed on itself, she would not take supper from the man who threw her in a cell. Anger, Sansa had learned, grew hotter when fanned with the breath of hunger. All she had left was her anger, for without that, she would surely never stop crying.

            The door opened again some hours later—how many, she wasn’t sure, but based on the porridge slid across the floor, it was morning.

            When the door opened for a third time, Sansa did not even look up from her mattress. “You might as well just feed it to the hounds,” she muttered.

            “And why would I do that?” It was a woman’s voice, soft and airy. When Sansa sat up and looked towards the door, she saw Roslin there, her pretty face half cast in shadow from the torches. She held a tray in her hands with what looked like some sort of meat pie.

            “I want to speak to my uncle,” Sansa said through her gritted teeth.

            “My lady, you need to eat something.”

            Sansa chuckled, though there was no laughter in her throat. “Edmure can come tell me that himself. Or is the great Lord of the Riverlands incapable of speaking with his prisoners?”

            Roslin sighed and set the tray down on the floor. She clasped her hands in front of her waist and took a hesitant step forward. “If you eat and gather your strength, you can come up to see him.”

            Her brows furrowed, and she glanced at the tray. Unlike the food she had left untouched, this one was still streaming, and the scent of meat made her mouth water. “Why?”

            “Because Edmure believes you will be more agreeable once you are fed and…”

            “And locked up for a night?”

            Roslin’s eyes fell demurely to her feet. “Just…just knock on the door once you’re ready, then the guard will take you up.” She swept from the room, then the lock clicked shut behind her.

            Once her footsteps had disappeared, Sansa sank to her knees beside the tray. Her stomach groaned as she watched the steam rise from the buttery crust, and she reached for the plate.

 

            Sansa wiped her hands on her skirts as the doors in front of her swung open, and she was guided inside what looked like a solar. Edmure stood behind a desk facing a window, and he turned as she entered. Sansa’s jaw hardened when she saw the clouds outside and the streaks of rain on the paneled glass. Another grey day. _How fitting_ , she thought bitterly.

            “Please sit,” Edmure said, gesturing towards the chair opposite him.

            “I’d rather stand,” she countered stiffly, not moving from the threshold.

            Edmure ran his tongue over his teeth, then dragged out his own chair with a sharp _screech_. “Are you hurt?”

            “No.”

            “Hungry?”

            She glared at him, unblinking. “You feed your prisoners well here, uncle.”

            “You’re not my prisoner.”

            “I’m not?” Sansa made a show of scratching her head in confusion. “I could have sworn I was locked in a cell all night.”

            “I see that the Kingslayer’s charming wit has rubbed off on you,” Edmure sighed.

            Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, and she swallowed thickly. “Don’t you dare speak of him like that,” she hissed, stalking forward to Edmure’s desk. “When you’re the one who sent assassins after us.”

            Edmure tore his eyes away, almost sheepishly. “Only after the Kingslayer,” he muttered. “I never wanted to harm you.”

            “So you don’t deny it, then? That you’ve had men looking  for us ever since we left Winterfell? How could you even know of the marriage so soon? We were attacked for the first time not two days ride from Winterfell. On Cerwyn lands.”

            That got his attention. Edmure looked back to her, his eyes wide. “I didn’t have men that far north, but it doesn’t surprise me. Your husband is despised even by your own people, Sansa. Good on the Cerwyns to take initiative before I could.”

            “How can you say that?” she spat, nails curling into her fists, digging into her palms to keep her anger in check. If she were not a lady, she would have smacked him. “Jaime is my _husband_. Your good nephew.” Sansa lifted her chin and shook back her tangled hair. “Tell me. Tell me why you did this.”

            “Sit first.”

            “I don’t _want_ to—”

            Edmure scraped back his chair, and on his feet, he loomed over her. “Sit,” he said again. Fuming, and seeing no other option, Sansa kicked back her chair and sank into it.

            “I’m sitting.”

            He shot her an exasperated look, then sat back down. “I didn’t believe it at first when I was informed of your wedding to the Kingslayer,” Edmure began, his voice thick, his eyes pointed anywhere but on hers. “My sister’s daughter married to that man…the people in Winterfell may not have cared about the match, but I know who that man is. What he and his family did to this castle, these lands—to my family.”

            “So what, you want him dead for revenge?”

            Edmure’s gaze snapped back to her. “I want him dead because he is a monster, Sansa. A monster you chose to marry.”

            Her uncle’s words swam through her head, then a frowned curved on her lips. _Chose._ Sansa had chosen Jaime. Chosen him over Tyrion. But how could Edmure know… “How did you find out about my wedding, uncle?”

            Edmure shifted in his seat. “A raven.”

            “A raven? From where?”

            “Winterfell,” he answered quickly.

            Sansa nodded, and her brows raised. “How peculiar,” she said, tilting her head in confusion, “when Winterfell doesn’t _have_ any ravens left after releasing the news of the Night King’s defeat. Forgive me, uncle, for I’m just a foolish little girl, but I believe an empty rookery means that there were no ravens to send. And I also believe that the only people who knew of our sudden wedding were _in_ Winterfell for the ceremony. Do you know who left Winterfell at the same time we did?”

            Edmure shrugged. It was too stiff, and his eyes danced away from her. “I do not.”

            “Jon left,” Sansa said slowly, dragging her words as Edmure squirmed in front of her. “Jon and our new dragon queen.”  

            “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I assure you—”

            “Daenerys sent you a raven, didn’t she?” Sansa demanded, cutting him off. “She got a raven in White Harbor, or on her way there, and _she_ sent you the happy news. Only she knew of your resentment against Jaime. She knew you’d want to do something about it.” Sansa leaned back in her chair, a maddened smile on her face.

            Daenerys had been so insistent on the marriage—so insistent that it was official before Jaime and her went south with their meager number of guards. And it made perfect sense, now that she ran through the last weeks in her mind. Jaime would always be a threat to a Targaryen rule—not just for his king slaying past, but for who he was. A soldier, a son of the great Tywin Lannister. And Sansa…well, she was the last Stark in Winterfell. She had the north on her side if the kingdom ever wanted to become independent like they had for thousands of years.

            Jaime Lannister and Sansa Stark. Separate, they were threats. Together, they were the queen’s enemies. And the queen wanted them removed from the board.

            “What did she promise you?”

            “What?”

            “What did Daenerys promise you when you told her you’d kill Jaime?”          

            Edmure drummed his fingers on the desk, glaring at her. He knew he was caught. “Coin to rebuild the Riverlands.”

            “And?”

            “Hoster’s—my son’s betrothal to her and Jon’s firstborn daughter.”

            She would have laughed, if anger wasn’t still pumping through her veins. Edmure didn’t even know if Daenerys would even birth a daughter—or any child at all, if the rumors were true.

            “I would not be so pleased with yourself, Sansa,” Edmure snapped, drawing his hand away and facing her head-on. “Your husband is likely dead, and you are still in my home.”

            “And what will you do with me now, uncle?” Sansa asked. She could not believe that Jaime was dead—did not believe it—but she didn’t dare tell Edmure that. “Lock me in a room? Marry me off to one of your bannermen? I assure you that a fourth forced marriage will not end pleasantly for the man you chose to honor with my hand.”

            Edmure rose to his feet. “Brandyn,” he said shortly. Sansa twisted around to see the door open an a guard step inside.

            “My lord?”

            “Take Lady Sansa to her new chambers, but see that her door is locked and a guard posted outside.” The man strode in and grasped Sansa’s arm, pulling her to her feet while Sansa glared at her uncle. “When she’s taken care of, send out search parties to the north. I want the Kingslayer found, dead or alive. And Sansa,” he said, his hard eyes dropping down to her. “You are not my prisoner, but if you behave in any way that endangers yourself, my men, or my family, I can assure you that things will become far less comfortable.”

           

            Sansa cursed at the door as the guard sauntered away before spinning around to observe her new chambers. She had been brought to the second floor where the family or guests presumably slept, and she quickly took note of the canopy bed, the chaise and dining table, the—

            “What are you doing here?” Sansa asked as her eyes fell on Roslin as she wandered out of the adjoining bathing room.

            Roslin raised a finger to her lips, then beckoned Sansa towards her. Hesitantly, Sansa stepped forward, and when Roslin disappeared back inside the bathing room, she followed.

            “The walls are thicker here,” Roslin said, her voice barely above a whisper. She perched on the edge of a copper tub and stared up at Sansa through thick, dark lashes.

            “Tell me what you’re doing here,” Sansa said, crossing her arms against her waist.

            “I’m here to help,” Roslin said, her voice soft, her eyes earnest. “I could not speak freely before—the walls were too thin, and the guard belongs to Edmure. But I want to help you, my lady. Help you get out of here whether or not your husband lives.”

            Sansa blinked her stinging eyes—no, she could not think about Jaime dying yet. “Why would you help me? Does my uncle treat you poorly?”

            Roslin shook her head. “Edmure is a good man. And he tries to be a kind one—he’s kind to me and our son—but he…he feels as if the other lords and ladies mock him. That they see him as weak. That’s why he agreed to Daenerys’s plan—he would not have dared to otherwise.”

            “I would have thought you’d agreed with him.”

            Again, she shook her head. “The coin will be good for our lands, but I don’t want to send Hoster to the capital,” she said, her voice thickening with emotion. “I don’t want that life for him.”

            Sansa joined her on rim of the tub. “I would gladly, thankfully accept your help, Lady Roslin, but I can’t—I can’t leave until I know if he’s—if he’s…”

            A hand clasped around her own, soft and warm. “Lord Jaime will be returned to you,” Roslin said firmly, squeezing Sansa’s hand.

            “How can you know that?”

            “Because my husband’s men are just as foolish as he is,” Roslin said. When Sansa lifted her eyes, she saw a small smile on Roslin’s lips. “And because the love you have for this man seems far greater than some silly story of assassins and dragon queens and fanciful promises of far-off betrothals.”

            Sansa breathed out a light laugh at Roslin’s jest. “I didn’t realize I loved him until quite recently. Last night, actually We spent _weeks_ together, and never once did I tell him that. And now he might never hear it.” A tear budded in her lashes, and when Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, it fell, rolling down her cheek.

            “That doesn’t mean the love wasn’t in you the whole time.” Roslin let go of her hand to brush away the tear.

            “So…so how do I get out of this? And how do you get out of this room?”

            Roslin chuckled. “There’s a backdoor that leads to a servant’s hallway. My husband locked it, but he doesn’t know I’ve always had the key.”

            “That sounds like my uncle.”

            “You’re quite right. And as for you, my lady,” Roslin continued, rising to her feet. “I have a cart carrying food for a local orphanage leaving at the end of the week. If your husband is brought here by then, I’ll make sure both of you are on that cart.”

            Sansa nodded, and she swallowed back the tears still stuck in her throat. “I don’t know how to thank you, Lady Roslin.”

            Roslin picked up her hands and smiled gently. “You can call me Roslin, if I can call you Sansa. I think those are better names for friends who help each other out behind their foolish uncle and husband’s back.”

            “Yes,” Sansa agreed, smiling more truthfully than she had in days. “I think so too.”

 

* * *

 

            “That’s not south, my lord, that’s west! We’re going the wrong way.”

            Jaime grunted and pushed Podrick away. His head spun as he stumbled forward, but his feet didn’t seem to be working. When Jaime looked down, his vision blurred, and the ground came rushing up to kiss him.

            “Podrick,” Jaime muttered, rolling onto his back. The gash in his cheek hit the cool, dewy grass of the morning, and Jaime nearly sighed in relief. “Podrick, we need to go south. To Riverrun.”

            He heard a grunt of exhaustion, then felt a sharp tug on his left arm and his right wrist.

            _Is the boy dragging me?_

“We are going to Riverrun, my lord,” Podrick sighed.

            Another yank, another tug.

            _What if someone sees?_ Oh, that would be a pretty sight. The infamous Kingslayer dragged through the mud by his squire.

            “How much further?” Jaime groaned. “We need…we need to be there as soon as possible.” His head pounded, and Jaime closed his eyes against the too-bright sky. Just for a moment. Just while he rested.

            “Yes, my lord. I know that. I’m trying.”

            A rock bumped against his head, and Jaime hissed as a sliver of hot pain coursed through him. He tried to pull away from Podrick’s grasp, but the boy was stronger than he had any right to be. Or maybe he was just too weak.

            “We need…we need to find Sansa.”

            Podrick didn’t answer for a moment, and all Jaime had to listen to was the lazy awakening of the day: the birds and the crickets and the rain. It was raining now. Drizzling. Jaime cracked open his lips and let the water hit his parched tongue.

            “Yes, my lord,” Podrick said finally, sadly. “We need find Sansa.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting closer to the end now! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and let me know your thoughts -- also, I'm going to be starting a new fic after this one ends. It's going to be another Jaime/Sansa story, but this time a Modern AU. More details to come when this story's over, but I hope you guys are excited about the new story, and lmk if there are other pairings, with Sansa or others, that you'd like to see in it!


	14. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long one for ya'll -- I hope you enjoy :)

            At first, Sansa was glad for her new chambers. Her body could finally relax against a featherbed. She could dine at table, wash the dirt from her skin, and feel warm air on her cheeks. But after the first week locked alone in the room, she realized that her Uncle’s apparent generosity was chosen for its ability to torture her. The chamber’s window faced north, and every day and every night she gazed out of it, waiting for Jaime to appear. She waited to see his body, dead or alive, slung over the back of a horse.

            She spent the first two days perched on the windowsill, her palm flat against the cool glass, the other smoothing nervously over her ripped skirt. No one had brought her any new clothes, and though she had washed them in the tub, the dress was entirely ruined. All she could do as she watched and waited was pick at the frayed threads, over and over again until it widened into a gaping hole around her knee.

            On the third day, Sansa asked the guard Brandyn for new clothes. He refused. And while the man did not say it, Sansa knew this was her uncle’s doing. He wanted her to feel dirty.

            On the fourth day, when Brandyn came up with her porridge, she asked for a sewing kit. He came back that afternoon with a small leather satchel filled with silver needles and dull shears and colored spools. Apparently sewing wasn’t against the rules. Perhaps Edmure even liked the thought of her falling back into women’s work, where he thought she belonged.

            Sansa fixed her dress easily, and when every hem and sleeve and tear was mended, she stood on the bed and yanked down the azure silk curtains of the canopy. At the screech of fabric ripping, Brandyn came rushing into the room, but when he saw her drowning in the swathes of fabric, he gazed at her like a mad women and politely excused himself back to his post.

            _Mad women cannot help but sew,_ she imagined the guard thinking, shaking out the curtains to lie it smooth against the stone floor. _We punish ourselves with the chores men demand of us._

            Sansa’s sewing was no punishment, though. For the next week, she allowed herself only three glances out the north window—one at breakfast, one at noon, and one before nightfall. She knew that this way it was almost impossible to catch Jaime arriving, but the thought soothed her. She was not ready to see his body. Not ready to a bride turned widow. So she kept away. Her hands snipped and threaded and hemmed, then they snipped and threaded and hemmed some more. When she ran out of fabric, she tore down the pale, gauzy mesh behind the baroque window hangings and added it to her pile. When the hearth grew too hot and her dress felt uncomfortably tight the guard refused to open the damned window, Sansa stripped down to her shift. Brandyn nearly dropped her supper that day when he caught sight of her, and he scampered out with a rushed mumbling of apologies.

            On the seventh morning, when she wore nothing but her shift, Sansa accepted her breakfast from the wench she’d seen in the courtyard her first day at Riverrun.

            “What are you making, m’lady?” the girl asked, stepping around Sansa’s piles of fabric to set her tray on the dining table.

            “A gown,” Sansa answered. She held up the fabric in her lap, showing her the finished skirts. She had sewn the canopy curtains into a deep blue skirt, then attached the mesh to the underside to create a swirling, full effect. The bodice was still in pieces, as Sansa dreaded setting to work on the most difficult part of the gown. Sansa had tried once already, but when the bodice didn’t fit with her usual measurement, she was forced to start over.

            “How lovely,” the girl commented, smiling.

            “Yes, well, I’ve been quite bored locked up in here,” Sansa said as the girl’s face fell slightly. “And besides, my old gown was ripped and too snug besides. Tell your cooks that they’ve fattened me up like a pig for the slaughter.”

            “Is there any news of the Kingslayer?” the girl asked, changing the subject. She kept herself at a distance, but her curiosity was evident in the way she rocked back and forth on her heels, her hands clasped eagerly in front of her.

            “No,” Sansa sighed. She threaded her needle with a spiderweb-thin grey spool, then delicately tied a knot. “Don’t they tell you?”

            “No, m’lady,” the wench answered. “No one tells me anything.”

            Sansa looked up at that, and she gave the girl a small smile. The wench had sorrowful, deep brown eyes and hair as yellow as straw. She was pretty, if a little smudged with soot, and seemed to be of Sansa’s age. _We are quite similar, you and I_ , Sansa thought. _Prisoners._ “No one tells me anything either,” Sansa told her. “But I haven’t looked outside yet this morning, so mayhap we can both be surprised.”

            Sansa laid down her needle, shook out the skirt of her shift, and crossed over to the wall. It was a misty sort of morning, and Sansa had to wipe down the cold glass with her palm to create a small window in the fog. “As usual,” Sansa said to the girl, “there’s nothing outside except…”

            “M’lady?”

            Her mouth went dry. Sansa rubbed a wider window into the glass.

            A party of Tully guards on horseback surrounded two figures. Two men. The taller one’s arms were slung around the shorter man, and his legs buckled at the knees. Sansa pressed her forehead against the window.

            _Podrick and Jaime. Jaime._

Blood covered them both.

Bile rose in the back of her throat, and Sansa turned away from the window as it came bubbling out of her. The serving girl shrieked and ran forward, catching Sansa’s hair as she began to wretch onto the floor.

            “No,” Sansa mumbled, swallowing back the sourness in her mouth. She dragged the back of her hand over her lips and used the wall to steady herself. The girl clutched lamely to Sansa’s loose hair, and Sansa easily pushed her away. “Take me downstairs,” she demanded. The girl’s nervous eyes roamed Sansa’s face, and when the girl reached for Sansa’s hair again, Sansa slapped the hand away. “Take me downstairs,” she repeated, more firmly. “Now.”

            “I—I can’t do that.” The girl started to retreat.

            Sansa snatched her wrist, holding her fast. “I need to see him.”

            “M’lady, I can’t! I can’t do that. I can’t let you out of here.”

            “Then bring me someone who can!” Sansa yelled. It came out louder than she meant, louder than she ever raised her voice, and it startled the wench into stumbling back and releasing her hand from Sansa’s grasp.

            The girl scurried out, and Sansa managed only a few steps before she collapsed into her pile of fabric. Tears splattered against it, staining her hard work with salt.

 

            Sansa looked up at the sound of her door closing, and she found Roslin’s demure face staring back at her. Sansa was back sitting her sewing chair, trying to fix the stiches she’d torn out, but her trembling fingers made it difficult work.

            Roslin swept into the room, looking around with her hands clasped, before she finally decided to perch on the edge of the bed. She eyed Sansa’s fabric and the ripped canopy, but only gave them a terse look. “Jaime’s alive.”

            Her heart fluttered, and when Sansa raised her fingers to soothe the throbbing vein in her neck, she found her skin slickened with cold sweat. Sansa set her sewing on the floor. “And the squire?”

            “He took a wound to the chest, but it caught in his mail. He’s fine.”

            Sansa nodded, and she swallowed shakily. “And Jaime?”

            Roslin’s gaze dipped to her hands folded above her skirts. “The maester believes he will recover.”

            They both knew what that meant. What it meant Edmure had left to do. “How long will that take?”

            “Maester Vyman says a fortnight. Edmure…Edmure will wait to take his vengeance until Jaime has healed somewhat.”

            That would be a week after Roslin’s magical cart was supposed to leave with Sansa and her husband hidden inside it. Sansa bit her lip, and Roslin finally looked back at Sansa, her dark eyes filled with tears. “What do I do, Roslin?” Sansa whispered. “What am I supposed to do?”

            Roslin brushed away a stay tear and squared her shoulders, obviously trying to compose herself for Sansa’s sake. “We can do all that we have left,” Roslin told her. “We can talk to Edmure. Try to make him see reason. Edmure loves me, and he loved your mother. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage.”

            “And if that doesn’t work?” Roslin dragged her gaze away in answer. “I want to see him.”

            “You can,” Roslin answered, and Sansa stared at her in surprise.

            “I can?”

            “For a short while, before…before he has regained his strength.”

            “What, does my uncle think I will be able to escape with my half-dead husband in tow.”

            Roslin’s lips twitched with a sad smile. “Apparently.”

 

            With Brandyn trailing behind them, Roslin led Sansa down to the dark corridor where her first cell had been, but when they reached her old door, Roslin continued on. It was darker here, with less torches and more stony-faced guards, and when they finally stopped outside a door, there was no iron grate to allow in more light or air.

            “Edmure says you can only stay for a short while,” Roslin told her as Brandyn unlocked the heavy padlock. “He’ll get you when the time’s up.” Roslin gave her one last, gentle pat on arm, then nodded for Sansa to go inside. The door shut with a rusty creak, then Jaime’s body emerged as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim chamber.

            “Jaime!” Sansa flew to the wooden cot and knelt down on the hard stone. Jaime lay on his back, his head resting on a dense straw pillow, his arms limp by his sides. Someone had changed his clothes, evidently, and wrapped his wounds, but she could still see the blood soaking through on his arms, legs, and torso. Everywhere, dirt and grime lung to him. Even his golden hand was hardly recognizable.

            “Gods, _Jaime_ ,” Sansa whimpered, taking his cold hand with her own. She touched her forehead to his arm and grasped his hand as tightly as she could. _I will hold on until they rip me from his body_ , Sansa resolved. _Until they rip me from his corpse._ Tears fell from her eyes, hot and wet and burning. Sansa pressed up onto her knees and bent over him. As his shallow breaths washed against her mouth, Sansa touched her lips to his. She tasted his blood, her salt, her sorrow. And when he murmured her name into her mouth, Sansa fell back on her heels in shock.

            “Jaime?” she said, her hands moving up to cup his jaw.

            A heavy, raspy sigh escaped his throat, then his lips parted dryly. “We need to find Sansa,” he murmured.

            A sob wretched free from her chest, and Sansa pressed her lips into his again. “I’m here, Jaime,” she cried against him. “You found me. You found me.”

            Jaime groaned. His eyelids fluttered, then shut again. Sansa whirled around, looking to see if the maester had left anything. She felt around on the dusty floor before her hand knocked into a cup of water. “Here,” she told him. She rose up to sit on the edge of the bed, then lifted the cup to his lips. With hands she could barely steady, Sansa managed to let a stream of water trickle into his mouth, and while he coughed at first, he soon began to drink in earnest.

            “That’s good,” Sansa whispered, blinking away her tears, smiling widely as salt slipped into her mouth. “You’re so good, Jaime,” she said as he finished half the cup. Sansa set it back down, then held his face again. Jaime’s eyelids began to flutter, and her smile spread into a grin when they opened fully. Jaime gazed back at her, confusion crumpled on his face like a little boy.

            “Sansa?”

            She nodded and sniffed back the snot clogging her nose. “I’m here, Jaime.”

            He tried to sit up, but after hissing in pain at the movement, he fell back onto the mattress. His fingers reached for her face. Jaime brushed her skin, smoothing over her eyebrow and sweeping down the curve of her nose and caressing her top lip, then the bottom. “Why am I locked in a cell?” he asked as his fingers settled around her cheek. “Are we locked in together?”

            Distraught laughter bubbled out of her, and Sansa shook her head. “I made it to Riverrun, when forced me to leave you and Podrick behind. But Jaime, those men that attacked at Oldstones…they’re my uncle’s men. Edmure’s.”

            A frown creased Jaime’s dirty, bruised face. “We were outnumbered. We killed all of them, but…Edmure, you said?”

            “He’s working with Daenerys. She offered him rewards if he managed to kill you and capture me.”

            Sharp anger flickered in Jaime’s eyes, darkening them. “This is my fault,” Jaime whispered. “For what I did to him during the war.”

            “That doesn’t matter now,” Sansa said. She released his face and placed her hand over his, holding it protectively to her cheek. “All that matters is that you’re alive. I—I was so worried. I didn’t know what would happen if they brought you back dead. I…” Sansa inhaled shakily, then she pressed her lips together. “I cannot bear to lose you, Jaime.”

            His eyes roamed her face, then he nodded too. “As I cannot bear to lose you.” Jaime said, gently taking her wrist. He kissed her hand first, then tugged her closer. With his wounds, Sansa dared not allow herself to put too much weight on him, but she allowed him to drag her closer, and their lips met.

            She opened her mouth for him.

            He slipped his tongue against her own.

            She answered him with an urgency she did not know to be inside her. It made her want to cry again, to weep and scream and cradle him against her and never let go. Sansa kissed Jaime desperately, and it was only when their breaths began to hitch and swirl messily together that she forced herself to pull slightly away.

            “I don’t want to hurt you.”

            “You could never hurt me.”

            He said it lightly, like a jest, but his solemn eyes revealed his intentions with the words. Sansa combed back his mud-caked hair, brushing it gently behind his ear. He closed his eyes to her touch and sighed happily. “Has Edmure told you what happens next?” he asked softly.  

            Sansa’s lips parted, then she hesitated. She was afraid to tell Jaime the truth, afraid he might try something rash, but when she saw how sadly he watched her, Sansa knew that he already guessed. “Edmure will bring you up you in a fortnight, as the maester suggested. Roslin and I will try to talk sense into Edmure, but…but I do not know what will happen. If it will work.”

            “I better get busy dying then,” Jaime muttered darkly. “I won’t give that man the chance to cut my throat down like a swine.”

            “Don’t you say that,” Sansa said sharply. “You will not die on me, Jaime Lannister.”

            He smiled weakly. “Are you going to stop me?”

            “If you die, I will throw myself from the highest tower and haunt you for all of time in the afterlife,” she said fiercely. The words came tumbling out, and Sansa was not even sure if she was sincere about the first part, but as Jaime gazed longingly back at her, she realized it was the truth. She had nothing left in the world, not until she was forced into bed with the man lying before her. She had nothing until she fell in love with him. Now he was all she had.

            Jaime ran his hand up her arm, setting her skin aflame, before it settled around her jaw. This time he brushed back her hair, and Sansa leaned into the steady touch. “We will stay together, then,” Jaime whispered. “No matter what.”

            “No matter what,” Sansa breathed back.

            Hinges creaked, and Sansa glanced over to see Brandyn silhouetted in the doorway. Sansa nodded to the man, then brushed a chaste kiss against Jaime’s lips. He clung to her fingers as she stood, and it was her that tore herself free from his grasp. Sansa kept her head high as she was escorted from the cell, and when they paused at the stairwell, Sansa cast one last, lingering look into the dimness.

            _No matter what._

* * *

            By the time Jaime was dragged from his cell, his body was covered in itchy, stitched wounds, his beard curled wirily around his jaw, and grime clung to every piece of skin not covered by the clothes he had been given to wear. Two well-muscled men held Jaime between them as they walked towards the great hall, and he felt strangely disheartened in his weakened, filthy state. Yes, they had been feeding him, but Jaime knew that he looked like a ghost of the great Kingslayer. It was clear in the way the household guards stared at him in surprise, in the way a yellow-haired serving girl wrung her hands as he passed her by.

            As Jaime was led inside, his eyes landed on Edmure and his wife sitting at the high table, and he heard the household shuffle into the room. Jaime looked around as much as the men holding him allowed it, but he did not find Sansa’s face in the pensive crowd.

            When the murmuring onlookers had stilled and quieted somewhat, Edmure turned to one of the guards. “Bring her in,” he commanded. The man disappeared behind a door, though only for a moment before it swung open again. Sansa followed the guard, and Jaime’s lips parted in shock when he saw her. A brilliant azure gown swung around her hips as she was led over to the high table, and the tight, corset bodice was cut low, showing the pale tops of her breasts. Sansa worse her hair down and unbraided, and it lifted in the air as she walked, like tendrils of fire. She was _glowing_.

            The guard tried to force Sansa into a chair at the end of the table, but she wrenched herself free, glaring at her uncle.

            “Fine,” Edmure said tartly. “Let her go.” He rose to his feet and gazed about the hall. His eyes landed on Jaime, and Jaime swore he could feel the anger radiating from them. “Kingslayer,” Edmure said. He let the word echo through the hall. “You stand accused of setting fire to the Riverlands. You stand accused of to laying siege to Riverrun and threatening its lord.”

            “We were at war, Lord Tully,” Jaime growled. “Or perhaps you were too busy being the good little prisoner to remember?”

            Edmure’s jaw clenched, setting his lips into a deadly line. “Look who is the prisoner now, Kingslayer.”

            The crowd tittered, and Jaime gritted his teeth to stop himself from snapping. “Yes, my lord. How brave of you to hold a man under false imprisonment. To keep your niece under lock and key for committing no crimes.” Jaime twisted to look back at the crowd. “Do your people know why we’re here on this lovely morning?”

            “My people are thankful that I had the foresight to make alliances with the crown,” Edmure called back. “They will be happy and safe and fed, all for the price of a Kingslayer’s life.”

            Jaime nodded, mockingly sincere. “And do they know that Lady Sansa’s life is included in that price?”

            Whispers swept through the crowd, and it was not until Edmure banged his goblet against the table that silence fell back over the room. Edmure looked sharply over to Sansa. “Sansa will be kept under my protection until I give her hand to one of my trusted bannermen.”

            Sansa stepped forward. Her chin was held high, and no tears streaked down her pale cheeks. “Uncle,” she began, her voice loud and clear. “If you kill Ser Jaime, I will find a way to escape this castle. If you send men after me, I will throw myself in the swift currents of the Red Fork.” She took a breath. “If you drag me back to this castle, I will find a high window and throw myself from it.” Sansa clasped her hands above her skirts, and when she met Edmure’s gaze, her eyes were as blue as ice. “If you give me to one of your bannermen, I will not hesitate to cut his throat as we lay in the marriage bed.”

             “You bluff, niece. You will do none of those things. This man you call your husband is not worth such a price,” he said, glancing at Jaime. “He’s worth nothing.”

            “Are you willing to test me on that, uncle?”

            He glowered at her, and the whole court stood still as they waited to see what he’d say next. Edmure’s lip twitched as his eyes bored into Sansa’s. “Kill him.”

            Nobody moved.

            Edmure rounded on the court, on Jaime. “I said _kill him_!” he roared.  

            Jaime looked at his guards, gauging their strength, then back at Sansa. Her chin quivered, and shook her head in a silent _no_.

            Some lord with a blade at his hip began marching forward, but he froze when a woman’s shrill cry of  for them to stop rang out. Sansa’s mouth was shut; it was not her who had screamed, but Roslin. Sansa too was staring at Roslin, who clung to her husband’s arm. “You will not kill this man, nor his wife,” Roslin said. There was a rage in her delicate voice, a deep anger quivering her thin body. “Because if you do, I promise that I will never touch you again or hold your counsel. The love I have for you will fade away to a hatred I did not even hold for you on our wedding day.”

            Edmure’s face had softened as she spoke, but when she was done and her chest heaving, he wrenched away from her grasp. “If you have fallen for me once, you will find it in yourself to do so again,” he told her curtly.

            “If you will not stop this madness for your niece or for me, then perhaps you will for yourself.” Roslin turned towards the crowd, her eyes directed to someone behind Jaime. When Jaime looked over his shoulder, he saw the yellow-haired serving girl standing in the front. The girl nodded to Roslin.

            “What is the meaning of this?” Edmure asked sharply.

            Roslin turned to face her husband, and she pressed up on her tiptoes, cupping his hard jaw. “You love our son more than anything, do you not?” When Edmure nodded, she offered him a small, sad smile. “Do you think little Hoster deserves to have his father ripped from him?”

            “Why do you—”

            “No child should have his father taken from him,” Roslin said, lifting her voice so all the court could hear. She met Jaime’s eyes with a steady gaze. “Any man that chooses to do so,” she said, finally turning back to Edmure, “is a monster in the eyes of Gods and men, and even his foolish need for revenge would not be enough to justify the killing of an unborn babe’s innocent father.”


	15. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here it is! The final chapter, with a scene I think many have you been eagerly waiting for. It's a long one, so grab a cup of tea or a snack and enjoy...

            Sansa felt the color drain from her face. “What?” she whispered, more to herself than Edmure or Roslin or even Jaime. He stood there across the room, watching her with a strange mix of fear and shock across his face. All around, whispers fluttered through the hall, calling Roslin’s words false, calling them true, calling for a maester.

            _An unborn babe…_ That’s what Roslin had said. An unborn babe, and she had said it to Jaime. As if…as if he was some unborn babe’s father. And she its mother.

            “Take him back to his cell,” Edmure called out over the din of the crowd. “Take her to the maester. Take my wife to our chambers.”

            As Edmure swept from the room with his guards and Riverland lords, Sansa felt Brandyn’s hand close her arm. Sansa allowed him to guide her away willingly. Her feet moved deftly through the keep even as her mind whirled in some manner halfway between numbness and complete turmoil.

            _An unborn babe._ Yes, that’s exactly what Roslin said in front of everyone. But she and Jaime had only been together once. It had been their wedding night. It had been six weeks ago.

            Brandyn escorted her into a room, and when Sansa finally blinked and looked around, she saw that it was a maester’s quarters, with pale morning light streaming in, bathing the books and tables and pots and potions. A man emerged from a shadowed corner, watching her as Sansa stood still in the middle of the chamber. Metal chains weighed down his wrinkled neck, and his snow-white hair was cropped short, with a beard of similar neatness.

            The door closed behind her, leaving Sansa alone with Maester Vyman, as Roslin had called him. He approached her slowly with the creeping stride of man whose body had given into age long ago, but when he stopped he smiled, and the lines around his pale eyes crinkled with kindness. Sansa did not know this man, but somehow, she knew she could trust him. He had healed Jaime, after all.

            “Take a seat, my lady,” he said, the warm smile still stretched over his wrinkled face. A cleared table stood by the wall with a pillow on one end, like the table Maester Luwin would lay Sansa on when she fell ill. Vyman must have seen her eyeing it nervously, and he chuckled. “I meant an actual seat, Lady Sansa,” he added, gesturing to one of the chairs pulled up to a smaller table. “The examination can wait.”

            “Oh,” Sansa muttered. She gathered her skirts and lowered herself gingerly into the chair—the table beside it was littered with glass bottles and bundles of dried herbs.

            Vyman groaned as he sat down across from her, then he gazed at her softly for a minute. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

            “How is one supposed to feel when her husband’s throat was about to be cut right in front of her?”

            “I was speaking of your condition, my lady, but I am here to help in whatever way I can.”

            Sansa pressed her lips together. “Is it true what Roslin said? That…that I am with child?”

            “Quite possibly. Lady Roslin came to me shortly after I had finished setting Ser Jaime’s wounds. She said our serving girl Josey witnessed signs that you could be with child.”

            _Josey_. Sansa smiled—it was nice to have a name to put to the girl’s face, though now Sansa wished she hadn’t been so harsh with the girl. “She held my hair while I retched,” Sansa told him. “It was when I saw Jaime and Podrick arrive, so I thought nothing of it.” Suddenly, Sansa frowned as the realization dawned on her. “Do you know where he is? Podrick, the squire that arrived here with Jaime?”

            Vyman gave her a bemused look, and Sansa breathed out a sigh of relief. “The boy suffered only minor wounds, and we set him up in a room with the household. Apparently he has been quite popular with Riverrun’s maidens,” Vyman said, chuckling. “Josey included. After the girl saw you with what she believed could be the mother’s sickness and learned of your need for a new gown, she asked Podrick for the more…intimate details of your marriage to Ser Jaime.”

            “She did?” Sansa asked, worry creasing her brow.

            Vyman patted her hand. “Do not worry, my lady. Podrick only told us that he knew you and Ser Jaime shared a bed. I have seen many an arranged marriage, and I know that it is not always this way between man and wife.”

            “But…but we only shared—we have only lain together once.”

            “So it was with the Lord and Lady Tully before Lord Edmure was taken prisoner, and yet we see little Hoster running about these halls. And so it was with your own mother. When Lord Eddard rode off after their wedding, Lady Catelyn was already pregnant with your brother.”

            Sansa smiled sadly at the mention of her family. She wished her mother was here right now to hold her hand and brush her hair like she was a little girl again. “What do you believe my mother would think?” she asked the maester. “You knew her, did you not?”

            He bowed his head. “I did. I served this family since Lady Catelyn was born, and I helped deliver little Robb with Maester Luwin here at Riverrun.” The maester’s smile faded slightly, and a sad mist took over his eyes. “Lady Catelyn would never have consented to a match with Jaime Lannister, but I knew she wanted you to be happy. She wanted you to have a family. I think,” he said, taking a quivering breath, “that she would be very proud of you.”

            Tears pricked her eyes, and Sansa reached for the man’s soft, bony fingers, and she squeezed his hand in thanks. “I want have Jaime’s child,” she whispered, before dragging the heel of her hand over her cheek, mopping up the tears.

            “Then let’s see if our suspicions are correct, hmm?” he said, helping Sansa to her feet. Vyman led her over to the examination table. As Sansa stated up at the low stone ceiling and bent her knees, she gingerly placed a hand on her stomach and smiled.   

 

* * *

 

            Jaime was back in his cell when the door opened and torchlight flooded in. He raised a hand to block the light, but when a figure in swirling blue skirts flew at him, Jaime stood and let her fall into his arms.

            “Jaime,” Sansa sobbed, her arms encircling his neck while he held her steady around her waist.

            “What? What happened?” he whispered against her hair. Tucked against him like this, Jaime’s chin rested on her crown. She fit into him like a key into a lock, snug and safe and perfect. Before, when he was first dragged into Riverrun, he’d been half dead and delirious. But now he felt his wife completely in his arms. He felt whole.

            “They’re going to let us go,” she told him, pulling back slightly to stare up at him through her wet lashes.

            _Let us go…_ Jaime kissed her, more roughly than he meant, more roughly than he ought to in his still wounded state, but Sansa did not seem to mind. Her hands snaked to curl into his dirty hair. Jaime pressed her closer—her breasts crushed against his chest, and she deepened their kiss with the soft release of a breathless sigh.

            Someone coughed from the door, and Jaime broke away to see a guard standing by the threshold. Jaime released his grip around her, moving to rest his hands lightly on her waist. There would be enough time for hungry kisses, soft kisses, every type of kiss over every inch of her body. “Why?” Jaime asked, searching her gleaming eyes.

            Sansa’s thumb brushed the nape of his neck, and a smile broke across her face. “Because Roslin was right.” She dropped her hands, then placed them gingerly over the shiny blue silk of her belly. “Because I am with child.”

            Jaime had heard the Frey girl in the hall, but he had hardly believed her words. _With child…_ “With…”

            She nodded, and when she looked back up to him, she grinned. “The maester confirmed it just now.” Sansa cupped his cheek, drawing him in for a soft, chaste kiss. “With your child, Jaime.”

            “I…”

            “Are you happy?” she asked, her eyes flitting nervously over his face.

            Jaime was going to be a father. A father to a child birthed by his wife. A father to a child bearing his own name, his own house, his own heart. Jaime had never wanted to be a husband, never wanted to call this little Stark girl his wife or their child his own. That was before, when all Jaime thought of was Cersei and her death and her life and all the pain she had inflicted on them all. But something had changed somewhere between the snows of Winterfell and the walls of Riverrun. Now Jaime saw a life after all the carnage. He saw peace. He saw hope. And he saw it with Sansa, the woman he had fallen in love with.

            _I love her._

            Jaime stretched his fingers towards her, and he placed them carefully on her belly.

            _And I’ll love this child too._

Sansa covered his hand with her own.

            “I am so happy, Sansa,” Jaime whispered hoarsely. He pulled his hand away, and it tangled into her flaming locks, holding her close. “You have made me so happy.” Laughter rose from her throat, tearful and delighted and maddened all at once. Jaime laughed too and drew her into his arms. “When can we leave?”

            “Soon,” she breathed out against his chest. “At nightfall so Edmure can be spared the shame of having his household watch us go.”

            “Roslin’s idea?”

            Sansa nodded against him, and she pressed her wet cheek into the rough fabric of his shirt. “But of course.”

 

            “Where does one go?” Podrick asked.

            “Where does one go when?”

            “When the dragon queen wants your head, and she wants your wife out of the way, and your good uncle has just released you from false imprisonment after failing to take your life?”

            Jaime barked out a laugh. They stood in Riverrun’s stables, and the glow of the sconces cast leaping shadows against the three horses they had saddled. The courtyard was silent save for the occasional crunch of straw beneath a boot or a hoof, and the cover of night cast a thick quiet over them. Jaime finished buckling his horse’s girth, folded down the leather covering, and gave his work a firm pat.

            “We go home,” Jaime told him. He ran his fingers over the horse’s slick black neck, then gave the mare a scratch behind the ears. She snorted, and Jaime smiled as he watched the steam blow from her nose.

            “Back to Winterfell, my lord?”

            “No,” Jaime said, glancing back at the boy. “We didn’t spend weeks trudging south to turn back now. Not yet, anyway.”

            Footsteps approached, and they both turned to see Sansa moving towards them through the shadows. She wore one of Roslin’s riding gowns and cloaks, and she carried a satchel over her shoulder. When she stopped by him, Jaime wrapped an arm around her waist.

            “We’re going to my childhood home,” he said, his words answering Podrick but his eyes on Sansa’s soft smile.

            “Will you have need for a squire at Casterly Rock?”

            Jaime gave him a bemused smirk, and he nodded sagely. “Most certainly,” he said, before putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We would be lost without you, Podrick.”

 

            Their journey into the west along the River Road was long and dragging and sometimes quite tedious, but Jaime had never been happier. Yes, Podrick and Sansa sent him mad with their constant singing, and yes, Jaime eyed every man, woman, and child they passed with a tiring cautiousness. But he had Sansa back beside him, and as they crossed the mountain pass through Wayfarer’s Rest, an unfamiliar excitement began to grow deep in his belly. The Westerlands had been his home as a boy, and he was ready to share them with Sansa and the babe she carried. He wanted to show her the sparkling waters of the Sunset Sea, the sheer cliffs of Casterly Rock, the castles of his father’s lords and the library hearth his mother would sit by while she read to him at night. Here, they were out of reach of mad queens and vengeful Riverland lords. Here, they could have a family, and maybe even a home.

            Whether they went to bed beneath the stars or inside a bannerman’s castle, Jaime would tuck his little wife to his chest each night until they fell asleep, tangled in each other’s arms. At first, he had hoped that their kisses would lead to something more, but every time Sansa would simply laugh and playfully push him away. She insisted that they waited until he had healed completely, and as much as Jaime pretended to pout, he knew she was right. His stiches had already been ripped twice after Sansa’s sweet kisses had turned into something more desperate.

            It was late evening by the time scouts rode out from Casterly Rock to greet them. Jaime had sent word a few days ago from Castle Sarsfield, and the men greeted him warmly as they pulled up. Jaime quietly told them to keep their voices down, and gestured to Sansa asleep against his chest. Even though they had left Riverrun with three horses, Sansa began asking to ride with him instead, and who was Jaime to refuse such an offer? Podrick ponied Sansa’s horse from atop his saddle, and they rode quietly up the steep, sloping road to Casterly Rock. As they passed through the golden stone walls surrounding Lannisport, Jaime cast his gaze around at the homes and taverns and storefronts. Torches flickered here and there, and despite the early nightfall, many a people moved about. Lords, ladies, whores and smallfolk, they all looked up at them as they rode through the street with some kind of surprise and awe. Most likely did not know his face, but maybe they recognized the red-haired beauty sleeping peacefully in front of him. By now, news of his marriage to Sansa had reached every corner of the kingdom, according to the Rock scouts. Everyone wanted to see the Kingslayer’s pretty northern bride.

            When it was time to dismount and they were safely behind the high, golden walls of Casterly Rock, Jaime gently roused his wife. “We’re here,” he told her, dismounting and taking her into his arms.

            “Already?” she asked sleepily as he carried her inside. “I can walk, you know,” she said, her mouth pressed against his shoulder.

            Jaime chuckled as she tightened her grip around his neck despite her protest. “I never got to carry my bride to bed,” he whispered as they claimed a spiraling staircase.  

            Sansa’s eyes blinked open, and she gazed around the hallway Jaime carried her through. Ornate tapestries with roaring, golden lions hung beside ruby-red windows. Delicate flower arrangements of white and rose gold imported from the Summer Isles sprouted up around every corner, and smiling servants strode past them with polite mummers of _welcome_ and _my lord, my lady_.

            By the time they reached the corridor of his old bedroom, a plump, red-cheeked woman came scurrying up to them. “Lord Lannister,” she said, curtsying. “And Lady Lannister—we’ve gone ahead and prepared the lord’s chambers for you.”

            “Thank you…”

            “Tylla,” the woman suppled. “Your father had appointed me in charge of the household.”

            “Thank you, Tylla,” Jaime said. It felt odd to hear someone call him that—his father had always been Lord Lannister, and he Ser Jaime. It would take some getting used to, as would Sansa being called Lady Lannister.

            “Would you like the kitchens to send up some supper?” she asked.

            “No, that’s all right. We ate on the road, and Lady Lannister is quite tired.”

            Tylla’s eyes flicked down to Sansa gathered in his arms, and she smiled. “Of course. We’ll set breakfast up for you in the morning and find the lady some handmaidens to choose from.”

            Once Jaime had thanked the housekeeper and dismissed her, Jaime found his father’s old chambers at the end of the hall. He used his free hand to open the door, then stepped inside. A deep red feather bed sat in the middle of the room with swathes of scarlet silk cascading from the carved canopy posts. “Here we are, little wolf,” he said, crossing over to the bed.

 

* * *

 

            Sansa laughed as Jaime dumped her unceremoniously on the soft mattress, and she hastily reached back for a pillow to chuck at his head—it missed of course, but she succeeded in taking his attention away from a goblet of Arbor gold he was pouring for himself. Sansa rolled over on her side to face him, propping her head up on her hand. “Come here,” she called softly.

            Jaime looked over to her, and smirk crossed his face. He set his polished silver cup down. “Is that command?”

            “Yes.”

            Jaime grinned wickedly. The glow of the lively hearth brought out specks of gold clouding his emerald eyes. _I could stare into those eyes forever_ , she thought pleasantly. He strode over to her, and when he reached the bed, Sansa rolled onto her back. Jaime climbed on top of her, with his hands pressed into the slippery sheets and his knees on either side of her own. “Do you have any more commands, my lady?” he asked.

            His hair hung down beside his face in this position, and Sansa reached up to tuck a lock back behind his ear. “Kiss me,” she whispered.  

            Jaime lowered himself closer, but when his mouth just hovering above hers, he paused. His nose brushed hers, and the feather-light touch sent her body aching for more. “As you wish,” he breathed out, before closing the distance. Sansa arched into his kiss, and her hands came up to skim his back, still annoyingly hidden beneath the boiled leather of his doublet. Jaime’s tongue darted out, begging entrance into her mouth, and Sansa obliged with a sigh. As Jaime deepened the kiss, her hands drifted lower, finding a hold on the sides of his firm arse. She urged him closer, and Jaime chuckled into her mouth.

            “I think it’s my turn for commands,” he growled playfully, snipping at her earlobe. Jaime pushed himself up. He reached for her hand, and she allowed him to stand her up too. Sansa felt no fear at his more assertive tone like she would have before—all that would come of Jaime’s commands were the touches she craved, his body warm and strong against hers. She even _liked_ the way he moved her closer to the hearth, placing her exactly where he wanted. She liked it when he told her to turn around and his hands deftly worked on the laces of her dress. When he murmured in her ear and commanded her to push down the straps of her shift, Sansa consented with a pleasing shiver.

            Jaime’s mouth found her bare shoulder with a wet heat, and his arms wrapped around her waist. He pressed a soft kiss against the outer curve, then one on the back, and another at the slope of her neck. When his lips trailed to the hollow of her jaw beneath her ear, he crushed his lips into the delicate skin with a bruising kiss. Sansa gasped.

            “What was that?” she breathed out as he moved to the other side.

            “Did it feel good?” he murmured.

            “Yes.”

            He started again with the gentle kisses. When he sucked on the hollow again, Sansa’s breathing hitched, and she closed her eyes with pleasure.

            “If I breathe in just enough when I kiss you,” Jaime said, before doing it again. “I can mark you as my own.”

            _Mark you._ Joffrey had marked her, and Ramsay had marked her in ways she dreaded to think on. But the way Jaime’s mouth caressed her, the pressure firm but his touch gentle…she wanted that. She wanted to know she was his even when she looked in the mirror the next morning. And she wanted him to do the same. Sansa turned around in his arms, gazing up at him. “Can I mark you?”

            Jaime’s eyes darkened, and the wicked smirk returned. “Go ahead,” he told her. Jaime unbuckled his doublet and tossed it aside. He reached for the hem of his shirt, and Sansa helped him pull that away too. Jaime stood there, his chest bare to her, his scars old and new shining in the fire’s light. Sansa ran her hands up his torso to settle on his shoulders, then she rose onto her tiptoes. She couldn’t reach Jaime’s neck as he had done to her, but his collar would do just fine. Sansa started a gentle trail of kisses as Jaime had, beginning by his arm and ending just below his collar bone. As she kissed his skin, she sucked it between her lips. Jaime groaned, and his hand wandered down to her hip, ghosting over the thin silk of her shift.

            “Did that please you?” she asked demurely, staring up at him though her lashes.

            He let go of her hip, and he put a finger beneath her chin, tilting it up and forcing her to meet his eyes. “ _You_ please me, Sansa.”

            Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot at his praise. She fingered one of the sleeves that had slipped down off her shoulder. “Do you want me to take this off?” she whispered.

            His finger traced down to the sleeve in question. “No,” he answered softly. “I want to take it off you.” Jaime circled to stand behind her, and he quickly released the white leather cords. When the bodice had loosened, Jaime used his golden hand to steady her at the shoulder, and with the other, he tugged the shift down until it pooled at her boots. Sansa moved to step out, but he held her still, then moved to her front and sank down on one knee. Jaime’s hand caressed up her calf, and he lifted her foot from the silky pool, then did the same with the other. When she stood in only her boots, Jaime unlaced those too and pulled them from her feet.

            When Jaime stood back up, he gazed at her from a slight distance. Sansa felt her whole body flush pink—this was the first time he had seen her like this, without the soft armor of her clothes. Sansa bit her lip. _Does he like what he sees?_ she wondered, suddenly all too aware of how small her breasts were, how red the hair between her legs.

            “Sansa…” Jaime said quietly, almost pensively. He studied her with eyes that had turned to a deep, hungry shade of green. “I wish you knew how beautiful you are to me.” Jaime stepped closer, but when he raised his hand, he hesitated like he didn’t know where to touch her first. After a heart-pounding moment, his fingers slid from her throat and down between her breasts, settling on her stomach.

            Sansa looked down, smiling at how his large hand enveloped her belly, their child inside it. “So are you, you know,” Sansa said lightly, watching him study her body.

            “Even for an old man?” he jested, his breathing quickened.

            “Even for an old man.” Sansa covered his hand with her own, adoring the heat pressing into her and the way their hands fit together. When she looked back up, his eyes were on hers.

            “Are you sure you want to?” he asked, concern worrying his brow.

            His hand slipped away, but Sansa took his wrist and moved it to her breast. Jaime cupped her, and when his thumb brushed over her nipple, a tingle rose up between her legs. “I’ll need to take those breeches off you first.”

            He laughed and removed his hand just long enough for her to undress him as he had done with her, languishingly gentle. When Jaime kicked his pants away, Sansa’s eyes fell to his manhood, hard and cutting through the warm air like a sword. Only a small trickle of fear ran through her body, but when Jaime pulled her in for a desperate kiss, the worry vanished, and she gave herself over to him fully, answering his need with her own.

            Sansa stumbled backwards towards the bed, their mouths never parting, their hands grabbing onto whatever they could hold. Sansa crawled up so that she sat by the pillow, and when she pressed her back into the mattress, she drew Jaime down on top of her. Unhindered by their clothes, she could feel every bit of his hot skin flush against her. Sansa arched into him, craving the pressure, the feel of his cock against her soft belly.

            Jaime dragged his lips away, and Sansa heard an offended mew escape her lips. She cupped his jaw and tried to pull him back, but Jaime captured her wrist, pinning it on the pillows above her head. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with lust.

            “I’m going to kiss every part of you until you cum.”

            There it was, that tingle again. All Sansa could do was smile happily. Jaime’s kisses came agonizingly slow; he started at her forehead, then her nose, then each earlobe. He kissed the base of her throat, the crook of each elbow, the thin skin of both wrists. When he raised her fingers to his mouth, he kissed each tip, then sank them into the wonderful wet heat of his mouth. He brushed feathery, tongue-swirling kisses against each hardened nipple, crushed bruising kisses all the way from one hip to the other. Jaime shifted downward on the bed to start up again at her toes and ankles, her calves and knees. He guided her to bend her legs. When he reached the inner flesh of her thighs, Sansa thought she might cry.

            “Jaime,” she breathed out. He had an arm crossed over her torso, holding down her hips. When his lips met the spot of her thigh just beside her core, she arched up against his hold. “Jaime,” she said again, curling her fingers into his hair. “You’re so—you’re good, Jaime. So good—”

            He kissed between her legs, and her breathless words were stolen from the moan that slipped free. She heard him chuckle, and Sansa gazed up at the red canopy as he kissed her there relentlessly, the pressure inside every muscle building and building until the dam broke, and with the waters his name came rushing from her lips.

            Jaime crawled back on top of her, grinning like a boy who’d gotten away with a crime. With her fingers still laced in her hair, she gazed at him lazily, her body still strangely limp from whatever _that_ was.

            “Lady Lannister, you look positively scandalized,” he murmured.

            Sansa smiled up at him. “I didn’t know it could feel so good,” she said, flushing at her own words. “I want to make you feel good, Jaime,” she said, pressing slightly up into the hardness against her belly.

            Jaime leaned in to kiss her, and she tasted herself on his lips. “Open your legs, little wolf,” he whispered into her mouth. Sansa let her thighs fall back open, then watched as Jaime took himself in hand and positioned himself at her entrance. Before he moved, Jaime glanced back up at her. “Are you sure?”

            She nodded slightly. “I want to feel you inside me, Jaime.”

            Steadying himself on his propped elbow, Jaime pushed inside of her, and a groan ripped free from his throat. His filled her completely, and when his hips bumped up against hers, Jaime kissed her slowly, softly, like she was made of porcelain. His thrusts matched his kisses at first, and Sansa gasped each time he filled her. When Sansa took hold of his cheek with one hand, her nails scratching the small of his back with the other, the kiss deepened, and his pace quickened. It wasn’t long before the pressure began to build beneath her skin again, and Sansa arched into him, urging him faster, deeper.

            “Sansa,” he moaned against her mouth as his hips snapped against her. He shifted slightly, resting his weight instead on his right arm as his hand came up to capture her jaw and the side of her throat. Sansa moaned at the pressure, then again as he thrust into her.

            “Oh—oh, Jaime.” Her body flooded with pleasure for a second time, and in a few more thrusts, she felt him pause, felt his hot seed spilling inside her.

            Jaime kissed her, then climbed off. He lay on his back, and Sansa settled her head into the crook of his neck, her hand flat against his slickened chest. They laid like that for a time, with the cool air drying their sweat and their breaths slowly evening out.  

            It was Sansa who broke the easy silence. She rubbed small circles into his chest with her thumb, and as she spoke, she watched the idle movement. “Jaime?” she said quietly.

            “Yes?” he answered, pressing a kiss into her hair.

            “Thank you.”

            “What for?”

            “Everything.” Her fingers stilled, then she shifted slightly, rolling to rest against his chest. She stared at his lips, not finding it in herself to meet his eyes. “I didn’t know what would happen when I chose to marry you. And it’s…it’s been as if the war has followed us ever since we wed. But I wouldn’t change it, Jaime. Not a thing.” She dragged her gaze up to his eyes, and he found her staring softly back at her. “Because without all this horror, I would not have loved you.”

            Jaime swallowed, then his hand came up to trace down the edge of her cheek, brushing past her jaw, stopping by her mouth. He drew her closer. “I love your strength and your courage,” he breathed out. He kissed her, a quiet kiss, one flush with meaning. “I love your beauty and the way you say my name.” Jaime kissed her again, hard and crushing, bruising and purple. “I love the child you carry inside you.” He dipped his tongue, sighing into her parted lips. When he pulled away, his eyes glinted with a sincerity that made her heart flutter. “I love you, Sansa. I don’t ever want to stop.”

            Jaime pulled her to rest against his chest, and she nestled back into him. “I love you, Jaime” she whispered. She stared into the hearth across the room, smiling at its light, at the warmth surrounding her. As her eyelids fluttered closed and her vision blurred, spots of orange blossomed, dancing together in the flames like partners waltzing on their wedding night.

            “Sleep, my lady,” Jaime murmured, and Sansa wondered if he watched the fire too. “Sleep, my little wolf.”

            Sansa relented. Her eyelids closed, she bid the flaming dancers goodbye, and with Jaime warm and safe and snug around her, she welcomed the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really hope you think I did these two the justice they deserve, and I hope you're ok with this ending. I always knew it wasn't going to be too long a story, and I'm happy with how it finished. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments. It's really all that encourages me to keep writing.   
> In other news...I'm so excited to announce that the first chapter of "Downstream," a 1970s Jaime/Sansa AU set in the American south, is finally up! It would mean so much if you could check it out and let me know what you think of it. 
> 
> Link to the new fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009006


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